Cemetery Dance
by Iced Blood
Summary: The gods have a design in mind for their servants. Be that as it may, they're not above letting certain people...bend the rules every once in a while. When the situation warrants it. Now complete with Part Six.
1. The Funeral

**_The name of the game when I started this little project is this: experimentation._**

**_I played around with a lot of things when I wrote this, and for the most part, I'm very pleased with the results. Now, what does this mean to you readers? I ask only this: go in with an open mind. There are quite a few things about this story that differ from the anime on which it's based. Personally, I think the story is better for it. I hope that you agree._**

**_I wanted to say something more substantial, but now that it's come time to post, I find myself struggling for words. So, you know what? I'm just going to let the story speak for itself._**

* * *

**PART ONE:  
The Funeral**

* * *

**1.**

* * *

I am not here today for him, and I am not here for you.

It might be easy for some of you to believe this, it might be hard for a few of you, but I am here today for myself. For the first time in this second half of my life, for the first time in ten years, I am being selfish.

I know what you think. I picked a horrid time to do such a thing. I should be ashamed of myself. I should think of him. But there is something I intend to tell you, even though I know none of you will hear me. None of you to whom I am speaking right now will hear anything except yet another example of my insufferable egotism.

That is your prerogative. I hope that you are pleased with it.

Nonetheless, I will say this:

Today is not to be celebrated; today is no different from any other day. In a world with six-point-eight billion human beings, the loss of one is inconsequential. The world does not care that a child was lost to one man's brutality, any more than that one man cared. And all of you that are here, you may delude yourselves into thinking that you are any different, but I would ask you, if you intend to respect this boy's death, to be honest with _yourselves_, if with no one else.

You don't care, either. Or, if you do, you won't care for long. You will move on, and what small, glancing wounds you may have suffered from this event will heal, and you will move on with the world.

You, all of you, do not belong here. You should have stayed home, you should have made blog posts and called your friends, you should have gasped once at the television screen before changing the channel.

The only people who belong here, in this neighborhood we have set aside for the dead, are those who do _not_ intend to move on. A funeral is not a celebration of a lost life, nor a lamentation for the newly dead. The dead are not here to partake in this spectacle. The dead have no need to care about what we remaining idiots do with their remains because we are too symbolically dependent to recognize that the body being lowered into the ground after I am done speaking is no more valuable than the animal bones that we so unceremoniously toss into the trash after finishing a meal, or throw to our dogs as playthings.

What made this child special is gone. What made him important, what made him noteworthy, what made him loved, died the moment his heart stopped beating. Make no mistake; I am no better than anyone else. I would no more discard this body than dig up any other in this cemetery. I, however, admit my own weakness in depending on such a wasteful, superstitious ritual.

If you wish to honor my child, then I ask of you this: do not lie to yourselves.

He is gone. And we have no right to cling to him.

Nevertheless, I _will_ cling to him, because I am selfish. I make no pretense about what happens with my life now. I am the only one who deserves to be here. And the very fact that I do deserve to be here is the precise reason why, were I a better man, I would have stayed away.

Those of you here who have claimed in the past to respect me, I apologize. I am not the strong, willful man you believed me to be. You who believe that I am a soulless, heartless narcissist; _you_ are the ones who have it right. And here is your proof of that.

I am here.

I am here, turning the one person out of six-point-eight billion that I loved, the one person out of six-point-eight billion that loved _me_, into a shameless spectacle because I am too weak to let him go. _I_ am rightfully disgusted with myself for that.

Those of you who do not share my disgust, those of you who came here today expecting me to give a heartfelt, passionate, teary-eyed manifesto of my brother's innumerable virtues, those of you who came here today expecting me to finally show you that I am, in fact, human…

You're too late.

I am no more human than the corpse rotting in that coffin. I am no more than the walking, vengeful dead, and I will continue to exist only as long as it takes to see justice served. I will continue to live, and I will continue to fight, only as long as it takes for me to see that the man who stole my humanity from me is punished.

Once that is done, I will take my place here. Dead, gone, inconsequential. And if none of you show at _my_ funeral, then I'll have done my job here.

Either you believe as I do, and my brother is gone, in which case he does not hear you, he does not see you, and there is no reason for you to be here wasting your time. Or, you believe that he _remains_ here, in which case you are keeping his spirit tethered here when he should be resting.

Either way, my final words to you are the same:

Get out.

* * *

**2.**

* * *

"I'm surprised he even showed up."

For once, it didn't sound as though Joey Wheeler was criticizing his rival. He was still subdued—still in what Kaiba might have called "mourning mode" if he had been in any shape to comment on it—and he was simply saying aloud what all of them had been thinking ever since Seto Kaiba had arrived, swathed in purest black cloth, at his brother's funeral.

Perhaps it would have been seen as respect, that Kaiba would wear an all-black suit for this specific occasion—and of course his brother would be the _only_ person for which Kaiba would make such a gesture—but Yugi Mutou wasn't sure that was the case. Yugi thought, rather, that he had worn black as a sign of bitter mockery, directed at the nameless, innumerable throng of people that had shown up at a ten-year-old boy's final resting place on the off-chance that anyone might care. In all honesty, Yugi was only slightly surprised that Kaiba hadn't worn pink, just to prove the point a little bit better.

They were all numb. They none of them knew what to say, what to think, or what to feel.

They had gone because it had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but after hearing Kaiba speak—in what was perhaps the final public announcement of his career, and his life—they all doubted that sentiment. They doubted it quite a lot.

"He _didn't_," Yugi murmured cryptically.

"Huh?" Tristan asked, and it sounded like he just felt like that's what he was supposed to say; he wasn't actually interested in an explanation. Yugi looked back, and saw that same kind of resigned apathy on Joey's and Téa's faces, as well, and he'd expected to see it.

More to keep the silence from driving him crazy than anything else, Yugi took the question as an excuse to explain, anyway, and he said, "He _didn't _show up. Did you see his eyes? There wasn't anything there. His eyes, his face, his voice…even the way he moved. It was all…wooden."

"Mechanical," Téa put in automatically.

Yugi blinked, then frowned. "Yes. Yes, that's it. Mechanical."

"Goin' through the motions," Joey said now. "He's got one more job, that's it. After that, he's dead. Said it himself. Once he finds the guy who killed Mokuba…Kaiba's gonna kill himself."

They didn't want to admit it. They didn't want to admit to themselves that someone they knew (not a friend; no one but Yugi had ever even entertained the _fantasy_ that Seto Kaiba was a friend) was planning to commit suicide, and that there wasn't anything they could do about it. Kaiba wasn't like most people. He hadn't used it as a threat. He'd made a promise, and they all knew that once Seto Kaiba made a promise, no matter what it was, there wasn't a single force on God's green earth that would stop him from seeing it through.

A part of Yugi, which he very much _didn't _want to think about right now (it felt disrespectful), felt sorry for whoever had murdered Mokuba Kaiba. Because another thing they all knew was what Kaiba had meant when he'd talked about justice, and punishment.

_Life shall go for life. Eye for eye. Tooth for tooth. Hand for hand. Foot for foot._

Another part of Yugi, directly opposed to the first part, was laughing.

* * *

**3.**

* * *

"Whichever god governs the dead in your society…I approve of its sense of humor."

Yugi didn't get up from his bed. He did, however, take the stereo remote from his tiny end table and turn down the music. There was no point in trying to drown him out. The spirit of the gambler did not suffer being ignored.

"…Not now, Yami. Please."

Yami's translucent eyes did not soften, but the manic glee in them abated the slightest bit. He said, "Your friends are interesting creatures, _Aibou. _Fascinating how they sympathize so easily with Kaiba now that the person who _wanted _them to sympathize with him—"

"Yami. Shut up."

"Am I _wrong, _then? You can't lie to me, _Aibou. _You'd have better luck trying to lie to yourself, and we both know how bad you are at doing _that. _You've felt it, too. That disgust Kaiba talked about. Beautiful speech. So impassioned in its bitter neutrality. Ah, but the man _is _a master. We could learn from him."

"Well, we _didn't."_

Yami flashed his signature glinting sickle grin and hopped down from the desk where he'd been perched. The spirit began to pace about the room, just barely visible even though the desk lamp was still on. He sent a coin dancing through the fingers of his right hand. "You always did feel sorry for him, didn't you? Always felt like maybe if he had a friend, he would be happier. Did you want to be that friend, _Aibou?"_

Yugi grunted. "I was an idiot. Kaiba _had _a friend. He's dead."

Yami wasn't the gambler's real name but right now, Yugi thought the name fit him better than it ever had. He was dark. The epitome, the pinnacle, the _essence _of dark. All the proof he would ever need shone in his ancient partner's twinkling crimson eyes.

Yami was enjoying this.

"Such a shame," the spirit mused, staring now out of Yugi's window. Yugi thought he felt a speech coming on. Yami often did this, just to showcase his superior ability to read people. It was like a game to him. Just like everything was a game to him. "That boy _did_ bring out the best in him. Almost as though they were one person split into two bodies. As though in order to survive in this world, Kaiba took all that was good in himself, all that was trusting and loving and _feeling, _and removed it, set it aside to let it grow _beside _him, instead of within him. And now that that is gone, he has become that which he always meant himself to be, whether he knew it or not: the perfect machine."

"You don't have to sound _that _excited about it," Yugi all but snarled. "Mokuba _was _a person, you know, and he didn't deserve this. What do you think he must have felt, Yami? Right before the end? Knowing that he was going to die? Without his brother beside him?"

Yami turned now to face his host, and there was a haunting quality to his expression now, so much like the expression Kaiba had worn at Mokuba's wake that for one wild moment, Yugi wondered if it had actually been a mask, and Kaiba had lent it to the gambler afterward.

"I think that he must have felt as if all light had gone from the world," Yami said softly. "I think that he cursed the gods. That he feared the pain of death but, more than that, I think that he feared the pain his beloved brother would feel, desolate and abandoned. I think that Mokuba knew full well that he was all that kept his brother human, and that without him, Kaiba would have no choice left to him but to follow him to the last judgment of Mayet in the Hall of Two Truths."

Whenever Yami spoke of his archaic peoples' beliefs, of his gods and his goddesses, Yugi couldn't help but think that he did it to mock them, much as Kaiba did whenever _he _spoke of religion. Yami no more believed in the divine than he believed in Santa Claus.

"You really think Kaiba's going to...kill himself."

"I am shocked that he hasn't done it already."

Truthfully, Yugi was surprised as well that Kaiba had made it this long. He, more than any of his friends, had seen just how fundamentally dependent his rival had been on his little brother, for comfort and love and just a reason to keep going. It had been his most endearing quality, his single shining virtue, but it had been—as everything else involving Seto Kaiba—sad as well.

Yugi had simply been hoping that Yami, who understood Kaiba better than anybody else, who knew his mind and his heart as well as Mokuba ever had (who else but an enemy would look into him so deeply?), would say differently. No such luck, of course. Yet another trait Yami shared with his embittered, misanthropic compatriot: he was absolutely nothing if not honest.

Yami was speaking the truth.

He was shocked.

It just...it wasn't...

"The gods do not abide by what is fair," Yami said, interrupting his host's thoughts as cleanly as if he could read them (and Yugi had had more than one reason to believe that he _could)_. "Humankind invented the concept of fair play as a coping mechanism. It is, perhaps, the cruelest lie we tell to ourselves."

No, Yugi thought.

The cruelest lie was that life _should _be fair.

Yami started to chuckle.

Yugi turned onto his side, away from his other self, and closed his eyes.

* * *

**4.**

* * *

Natsumi Mutou watched the news often enough to know what was bothering her son. He was at the age that he no longer talked to her about his emotional problems anymore, but he didn't have to tell her. Yugi had always been sensitive, and death had always bothered him, whether he knew the person or not.

She didn't try to cheer him up when he half-walked, half-shuffled into the kitchen. He grabbed a box of cereal and almost threw it onto the dining room table, then turned to the dishwasher and retrieved a bowl and spoon. He sat down before realizing he had forgotten the milk. He sighed, and stared down at his breakfast as if contemplating whether or not he wanted to get back up.

Natsumi sighed and opened the refrigerator, took out the carton and placed it onto the table for him. Yugi gave a somewhat fake smile and thanked her quietly, but it took him a long time before he picked it up and poured its contents over his cereal. If she didn't already know what was wrong, it would have worried her to see him like this. But, of course, she did.

And so, it would have worried her if he _weren't _acting like this.

"Was it…peaceful?" she asked, eventually, trying to keep the conversation going. She didn't like it when Yugi was silent. It never meant anything good. She had originally thought to ask if the funeral was _nice, _but of course that was a stupid, and offensive, question.

Yugi shook his head. "…No. Kaiba managed to make everybody who showed up feel horrible." Natsumi frowned. "The worst part about it is…he's right. He was right. Mokuba never…knew many people. He always said Kaiba was his best friend. And maybe he thought of us, me and Joey and Tristan and Téa, maybe he thought we were friends, too. But…that was all. But there were so many other people there that I'd never seen before."

"He _was_ famous," Natsumi said. "He was bound to have fans."

"I guess. But…it felt…_wrong. _I mean, aside from Kaiba, _we_ spent the most time with Mokuba, ever since the whole Duelist Kingdom…thing. And it felt like even weshouldn't have been there."

"Why would Mister Kaiba have a public service, if all he intended to do was tell everyone they shouldn't have come?"

Yugi smirked bitterly. "To prove a point."

Natsumi had never had much of an opinion on Seto Kaiba. Yugi was a teenager now (almost an adult), and the whole "come meet my family" ritual with every new friend had pretty much passed by now. Every teen needed one or two friends his parents didn't know, right? Wasn't that part of what independence meant?

So, she had never pried.

But now, she wasn't sure that she liked the head of the Kaiba Corporation very much.

This must have been clearly stamped on Natsumi's face, because Yugi's smile softened, and he said, "Kaiba's grieving, too. More than any of us. If he needs to lash out at us," he gestured around himself as if to indicate all of society, "to feel human again, then I think we should let him. We owe him that much, at least."

Natsumi raised an eyebrow. "He's never struck me as the sort of man to grieve."

"I'm sure that's what he wants you to think. Kaiba never shows weakness, ever. Mo—Mokuba used to…tell us that…" But he couldn't finish the sentence. He took a bite of cereal, chewed slowly, stared at the table for a while, before he finally just started over. "When you're as close to somebody as Kaiba was to Mokuba…there's no way you don't grieve. Even Kaiba can't take _that_ kind of—that kind of…"

Yugi was gripping his spoon so tightly that Natsumi half-expected it to snap in half. He cursed under his breath. She said, tentatively, "Were they that close? It never _seemed_ like…"

Yugi gritted his teeth, and barely got the words out.

"…Kaiba _lived _for him."

* * *

**5.**

* * *

The days passed, and in the recesses of his host's darkest, most private thoughts and desires, the gambler spirit who called himself Yami sat, watched, and brooded.

He knew that he only existed through the boy with whom he shared a body on increasingly frequent intervals, and thus he knew the benefits of keeping that boy happy. Content. He had seen how the spirit of the ring handled Ryou Bakura, and knew the folly of it. Reigning in a slave was far more difficult than appeasing a companion, and Yami was a pragmatic man.

So he thought, long and hard in the place Yugi called his "soul room," about how to handle this situation. It wasn't just Yugi. Everyone in the Inner Circle was mourning the loss of their newest member. Yami could not say with complete confidence that he had liked the young Kaiba nearly as much as Yugi seemed to have liked him, but he did admit that Mokuba had been interesting.

Téa Gardner, the eternal cheerleader; Joey Wheeler, the right hand; Tristan Taylor, the second lieutenant; they all three had reacted to the presence of the Kaiba family entering into their lives with clear-cut, honest hostility. And this was not surprising. But Yami, Yugi's shadow, had welcomed them with open arms. _Here _was something different. Something _fascinating_. A challenge he could sink his teeth into. Seto Kaiba was as close to an equal as Yami thought he would ever find, and it made his blood sing.

...Aha.

So _that _was the heart of the matter. Why Yami himself felt affected by this.

The last piece of the puzzle fell into place.

Without the boy, Kaiba was far from a perfect machine; he was a broken, battered relic. Gone was the equal. Gone was the challenge. Gone was the thrill that Kaiba brought to the arena. Without an heir, and without the will to find another, the Kaiba legacy had ended. And Yami was insufferably bored.

He supposed that he had to give his rival credit, though, for going out with all the bitter confidence he had ever had. Kaiba hadn't slinked away into obscurity, or ended himself the very instant his baby brother's breath had ceased; no. He had come out into the open, he had met his final challenge with his head held high, and Yami knew that if Kaiba _did _intend to die after finishing this final task (and Yami was sure that he did), it would be done with style. It would be explosive. It would be bloody. It would be historic.

And it would, in Joey's immortal dialect, "fucking _suck."_

Yami wondered if this was what it meant to love someone. If this was what Kaiba had felt for Mokuba. Somehow he doubted it, but he thought that it must be close. The very concept of Seto Kaiba dying was abhorrent to him. Of course Yami knew that it would happen _eventually, _but the idea that it was _imminent..._

No.

He would not allow it.

* * *

**6.**

* * *

Yugi spent Saturday morning talking to his mother. But by the time he went back to his room, he couldn't remember a single thing about the conversation.

Yami was unusually quiet, and Yugi was bothered by the fact that he _didn't _appreciate it. Every so often, when he couldn't take sharing his body and mind with another person (insomuch as Yami could be called a _person_), he simply took the Millennium Puzzle from his neck and set it aside. Most of the time, though, he kept it on. It had become a calling card of sorts, and he'd grown used to it. He'd grown used to Yami's constant presence, used to the gambler's questions and observations, and Yugi was now legitimately worried when the spirit backed off, even when it should have been a relief, like today.

When Yami was silent, it meant that he was concentrating on something.

And when Yami concentrated, it was never a good thing.

Sometimes, the spirit liked to discuss his schemes with his host, and Yugi would have been a lot less nervous if it had been one of these; generally, if Yami brought in a committee, the plan was relatively safe. When he played his cards close to his chest, however...

Yugi thought of his plans for today as he threw himself onto his bed again. He thought about how fun it would have been to go to Kaiba's new amusement park with the others, about how Mokuba would have been giving a presentation on his brother's latest _Magic & Wizards _holographic arena, and about how Kaiba had openly challenged Yugi (Yami, actually, but of course Kaiba didn't know/believe that) to a duel in order to test it.

He didn't have to ask if these plans had been canceled.

Even if Kaiba's challenge _was _still on, Yugi was in no mood to let Yami answer it.

_You do know, Aibou, that if I wanted to come through badly enough, you would be hard-pressed to stop me, _Yami's voice pierced his mind, and Yugi flinched. The voice was just as sardonic, just as sharp, as ever, but it was also distracted, the comment offhand.

"Whatever," Yugi mumbled.

* * *

**7.**

* * *

They had all expected Seto-sama to shut down.

Bocchan had always been the driving force behind Seto-sama's ambition. Every member of the Kaiba Estate's staff, who had held a position for longer than a month, knew that much. Why did Seto-sama work as often, and as hard, as he did? Bocchan. Why had Seto-sama stolen the Kaiba Corporation from his predecessor? Bocchan. Why had Seto-sama suffered so much abuse at the hands of that predecessor? Bocchan. Why had Seto-sama _become_ Seto-sama in the first place? Bocchan.

All of it centered around that small, excitable, raven-haired boy who had somehow managed—in ways nobody would ever understand—to wrest the buried humanity out of the machine that Kaiba Gozaburo had built.

Seto-sama's personal servants knew just how important Bocchan had been to his stability, and the stability of the mansion in general, and so they all figured that, without that oh-so-vital cornerstone, the entire thing would crumble.

_Nobody_ had expected Seto-sama to go into hyper-drive.

But that's precisely what he had done.

For a while, it seemed that Seto-sama had learned more from his father than he'd ever let on and—now that Bocchan wasn't around to tell him to slow down—he was just doing what he'd always intended to do. For a while, it seemed as though Seto-sama had lost a burden, had broken out of his shackles and was now simply living up to his potential.

Akiko had hoped this wasn't the case.

So even though it was horrible, she was more than a little relieved when she realized what this _actually _was. Even though it haunted her, because she knew how it would inevitably end, she was glad.

Seto-sama wasn't living up to his potential.

He was running himself straight into the grave.

Yoshimi Akiko had worked for Seto-sama longer than most of the others, so she knew the estate better than she knew her own home. She knew every corner, every hall, every room. She knew how this mansion was supposed to feel. And she knew it didn't feel right anymore.

She'd used to think of this place as a museum.

Now it felt like nothing so much as a funeral parlor.

Silence still reigned here, order and routine still made the rounds and kept the peace, and to an outsider, it would have seemed as though nothing at all were out of the ordinary. The staff kept things clean, Seto-sama barked orders when he wasn't in his office, and nobody said anything about it.

It was just that now, there wasn't a little voice piping up after him, telling Niisama that he shouldn't be so bossy. Nobody asked Akiko if there was anything he could do to help out so that he could earn his allowance that week; nobody asked Connolly about the recipe for supper last night because it was _really _good and he wanted to learn how to make it himself; and nobody patrolled about the mansion on the sparse handful of times that Niisama took an afternoon nap to make sure everybody was quiet. In short, nobody was around to breathe life into the place anymore.

And so everybody was in a kind of stupor, numb and mechanical and only performing their duties because even though Bocchan wasn't around to keep up morale, Seto-sama was, and he kept them moving even when they didn't want to move.

For that, Akiko was more grateful than she could ever express in words.

And she seemed to be the only one who was.

"Grateful?" Lilly had asked once, after Akiko had served Seto-sama his afternoon meal (and been ordered out of the room almost before she'd even set down the tray). "Kiko, not that I'm criticizing you, but are you a masochist or something? How can you be _grateful?"_

Akiko had just smiled. A sad smile, but a smile nonetheless; and those were pitifully rare on the Kaiba Estate during the best of occasions. "Seto-sama is grieving more than any of us," she'd said, "and if he can work through it, then so can I."

"Grieving," Lilly had echoed, scowling. "I doubt that."

Akiko's smile hadn't faltered. "It will catch up to him eventually. Right now, he's trying to ignore the pain. That's why he's so much angrier than usual. He's trying to forget that Bocchan is gone, and once he remembers that, once he has to face that, he's going to crumble. I intend to be here when he does. If he calls for me, Bocchan would never forgive me if I didn't answer."

Lilly's scowl deepened.

"Enough people have abandoned him already."

* * *

**8.**

* * *

The whole of the world was grey.

The music wove itself into the tired tapestry of the room like a lethargic snake, and its occupant registered none of it. It was playing because that was the routine, and routine had always been important to th—to _him._

To the untrained, all was as usual. His fingers attacked the keys with their usual speed and precision, borne from years of constant training and muscle memory. His eyes drank in information like bitter, burning liquor from the unblinking, overbearing flat-screen. To the untrained, it was the usual staring contest between man and machine. To the untrained, there was nothing out of place.

To those who knew better, all was broken.

_He _would have seen through it, but of course _He _wasn't here anymore, and that was the source of the break in the first place, so what did it matter? He forced the fanciful musing from his mind. He had a mission in this new world to which he'd been born. This mocking grey purgatory. This desolate husk. This goddamned game-board.

He no longer worked. He no longer expected his servants to work.

They did, of course, because it was all they knew to do. They were all, in their own ways, grieving. _He _had been the favorite. _He _had been the prized one. But the servants did not understand. Except perhaps Yoshimi but, then, she had always been more attentive than the others. She had always been the most competent. The one of which he approved.

The one _He _had liked.

She entered the room (not his office, no; the very idea of entering _that _room sickened him) with food and drink. She set it down, bowed, and left. No pretense. No attempts at conversation. No "cheering him up." She knew better. She understood better. And he ate, and he drank, when he would do neither for any of the others, even though he tasted nothing.

He had to fuel himself. He had to keep himself alive.

For now.

He had a mission.

He had been awake for thirty-six hours now. Sleep had never been easy for him, and he had only kept up the façade of a regular schedule for _His _benefit. So he only slept now when it came up from deep within him and dragged him down, forced him into the obliterating darkness with all the gleeful cruelty of an overzealous slave-driver.

His eyes burned. His muscles ached. His mind was slowing. He knew soon that he would fall unconscious, and briefly considered rising from his chair and finding a bed. His sleep, such as it was, would be less hindered, and he would be better able to think. It would be efficient. It would be wise. It would be prudent.

He did not move.

There was no one now to worry, no one now to reprimand him. There was no one to whose happiness he needed to adhere, no one for whom to set a proper example. Let his performance be less than optimal. Let his mind slow and his body suffer.

What did it matter?

He had a mission, yes, but was there any passion in it? Was there any point? No. Only symbolic dependence on a final promise, and if it turned out that he could keep it, that was fine. But if he could not, if he failed in his mission and died in the dirt like an abandoned dog, that was fine, too.

Let that nameless, faceless monster have what it wanted from him.

Let it win.

He had a mission, but whether he won or lost, succeeded or failed, it didn't matter.

Because the world was grey.

And there was no one to make him care anymore.

* * *

**9.**

* * *

Yugi shut off his stereo and pitched the remote across the room.

"Someone's in a bad mood."

"No way. I don't believe it. Really?"

Yami smirked, and Yugi wanted to punch him. He was _not_ a violent person, but...

"The little Kaiba _did _make an impression on you, didn't he, _Aibou?" _the spirit asked musingly. "One would almost think he was a member of _your _family. Is this the 'anger' stage?"

"Yami, I swear to God, if you don't shut your insufferable trap, I'm going to take this puzzle and melt it into a can opener!"

It did no good.

Yami just laughed.

Yugi reached around his head, grabbed his pillow, and slammed it over his face as if he planned to smother himself. It didn't help. The gambler's mirth echoed in his head, completely unfiltered even though his ears were covered.

_**You feel guilty for this sorrow. You feel as though you haven't the right to grieve, when it is Kaiba who has lost here. Not you.**_

Yami's voice came in over his laughter, which did not stop. The sound unnerved Yugi, and he lowered the pillow to stare at his partner, who was jarringly stone-faced now. Crimson eyes flashed.

"...Yes."

Yami shrugged. "You're right. Mokuba belonged to Kaiba alone. There is no point in denying it. The boy himself knew it. _Reveled _in it. We? You, I, all the others; dirt beneath Kaiba's pristinely polished shoes."

"How is it that you even manage to make brotherly love sound evil?"

Yami didn't answer. This was no surprise, and Yugi hadn't expected one, anyway.

He knew that this kind of thinking, this wallowing he had been doing ever since the funeral, wasn't doing anyone any good. And he _didn't _have any right to be doing it, anyway. It's not like he and Mokuba had really had time to become friends. _Yami _had saved the boy's life once, sure, but that...

It didn't matter.

This wasn't right.

If Kaiba could pick up the pieces, even if it _was_ just for vengeance, then Yugi didn't have any excuse. But that was something else that was worrying him: Kaiba. He was still alive, and from what Yugi'd heard from Kaiba's maid, he was working as hard as ever (though Yugi doubted this work had anything to do with Kaiba-Corp), but there was no question that he was going to break. Soon. That he hadn't already just proved how little Yugi had ever known about the man.

But he _did _know that it was going to happen eventually.

"...Unless, of course, you can fix it."

Yugi blinked.

"What?"

"That's what you're thinking," Yami elaborated. "He's going to break, unless you can fix it. Fix _him. _That's what you want to do. You want to fix him. You want to help him live again." The gambler sighed. "There's only one way that's ever going to happen, at this stage. He's still too dependent. Mokuba is the only key to his survival."

Yugi scowled. "Mokuba's _dead."_

Yami smirked again, but this time, it didn't seem as dark as before.

He said, "That didn't stop _me."_

The scowl dropped from Yugi's face.

"...Are you saying...?"

The laughter didn't sound as mocking as before.

"Yami, do you...? Can you...? You _can't...!"_

The eyes didn't look as evil as before.

"...Watch me."

* * *

**END.**

* * *

**_A few of you are probably wondering what the hell possessed me to kill off poor little Mokuba. The horrid truth is that I didn't have a particular motivation for doing it; the story just came out that way. But before you gather up your weapons and start lighting torches to come sacrifice me to the Old Gods, I beg that you give me some time. Trust me...I'm not done just yet. There's more, much more, to come. Like the title says...this is only part one._**

**_I have—or should I say, Yami has—a few tricks to play._**

**_Should be fun...don't you think?_**


	2. The Ritual

**_Part two of what will likely be four. It's here that the story starts to truly unfold. The first section set the stage. This is what happens when the actors and actresses begin their performance, with the lights dimmed and the theater hushed, and each line echoes in the ears and minds of the audience._**

**_That is to say, things get interesting now. Yami comes into his own, and the others are along for the ride. Furthermore, while I have attempted in the past to characterize Seto in the violent absence of his brother, it is here that I believe I've found the mark. In this way, and more than a few others, you can think of this story as the spiritual successor to the first multi-chapter story that I ever finished; the first story to garner meaningful attention on this site: "Twist of Fate." This story, however, takes a darker turn than the original, in an effort to breathe a bit more psychological realism into the premise._**

**_And a touch of magic, of course._**

**_Are you ready? I hope so; the ritual is about to begin._**

* * *

**PART TWO:  
****The Ritual**

* * *

**10.**

* * *

Kaiba'd said it. He guessed it shouldn't have surprised him, then, when it proved true. Not really. Seriously, the guy was a genius, after all, and he'd been around some pretty screwed up people in his life. He knew the dark, evil truths humanity hid from itself.

Joey Wheeler liked to think of himself as a stand-up guy, so yeah, it bothered him. But then, Kaiba'd said it would happen. And for all the guy's faults (and there were a right lot of 'em), he _was _smart. He knew what he was doin'.

It took a week, a good solid week, but after a while, Joey started to "get over" Mokuba Kaiba's death. He was smiling on a regular basis again. He was making plans and talking on the phone and all that other normal stuff Kaiba'd said he'd be doing.

He thought about the kid, and it pissed him off to no goddamn end to think of whatever goddamn piece of shit son of a _whore _decided to—but he was used to anger. He knew how to hold it back. Sort of.

He thought about it, and he stared it in the face, and he told himself it shouldn't be this soon. But it was. He'd come to grips with it, and he knew he was gonna make out all right. He hadn't really known Mokuba for all that long. Good kid, loyal and brave and almost as smart as his big brother, but...not too close. Not family-outside-family material.

Yet.

Maybe it would've happened eventually.

He didn't know.

Yugi wasn't over it yet, but that wasn't much of a surprise. Yugi still sounded distant, distracted and just plain out of it, whenever Joey called. So Joey hadn't stopped by the shop in a while. He figured his best friend needed some alone time with his family right now. Yugi was a softie, through and through, and there really wasn't any fighting it.

Tristan...well, Tristan had thick skin. He'd seen death a few times in his own family. Joey thought it was an aunt who'd lost her first daughter to SIDS. So Tristan was, sad as it was, used to this kind of thing. It didn't really affect him too much anymore. Joey thought that was part of the reason _he _was adjusting. There were always gonna be certain things that Joey'd look to Tristan for an example, and this was one of 'em.

So yeah. He thought about it, but in that detached way that generally made you feel like a jerk until you convinced yourself to forget it. And he was just getting to that point today, as he was walking out to the grocery store to pick up a sandwich for lunch, when he heard them.

"...you believe him? He calls _that _a eulogy?"

"I always _thought _he was horrible, but _that's_ a disgrace!"

A couple. Late twenties, early thirties. Guy, first speaker, wearing khaki pants, tan work boots, and a blue windbreaker. Beard. Trimmed. Black hair, glasses. Thin glasses. Girl, second speaker, strawberry blonde. Tall, wearing faded jeans and a long brown shirt. Matching scarf.

Joey's eyes narrowed.

Target locked.

They were sitting in front of a restaurant, the girl was eating a bagel with cream cheese and the guy was sipping some kind of coffee. There was a newspaper on the table between them, and Joey didn't need to crane his neck to see Kaiba's picture.

..._Fuck._

He stopped moving. He felt something he never thought he'd feel. Ever. It was jarring, and he wasn't sure what to make of it at first. But the strangest part about the anger welling up in him right now was that it felt familiar.

And the scariest part was that it felt _good._

"All those people show up to pay respect to that poor boy, and all _he _does is berate them!" the girl said, and Joey drew in a deep breath. Oh, this couldn't end well. Nope. The guy was nodding, nodding, with this half-frown, half-sneer manufactured to look solemn and offended at the same time, but all it said to Joey was that something about the six-dollar insulated-paper-plastic-top-frilly-whipped-cream concoction he was drinking was giving him heartburn.

Joey hated him already.

"Well, what do you expect?" the guy said, in an airy tone meant to be world-weary. This guy was just chock-full of _fake. _God. "It's not like he's ever had to deal with _real _hardship before. He was adopted into billions. Probably never paid attention to the boy in the first place. People like Seto Kaiba are just...if you ask me, it wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility that he ordered a _hit _on the p—"

"_'Scuse_ me," Joey cut in, before he realized what he was doing. The couple jumped.

Big Man puffed up like a blowfish. "...Yes? May I help you?"

The blond gestured with one hand. "Yeah, yeah. Look, I'm kinda lost, and I wondered if, uh...if you could..." And he made to reach into his back pocket. "Sorry 'bout this, but I'm late for a, uh—well, my sister's in town 'n...um...could you come here for a minute? Take a look at...?"

The guy stood up, looking irritated.

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, for the first time since meeting Yugi Mutou and discovering that life as a street thug wasn't the right way to go, Joseph Scott Wheeler reeled back his fist and sent it barreling into another man's teeth.

The shock that went up his arm, the _crack _against his curled fingers, it all felt familiar and satisfying and so goddamn _right, _and watching the bearded man with the thin glasses vault over his chair and tumble to the ground, where he curled in the fetal position and moaned like a dying goat, _that _was right, too. God, _yes, _it was right.

Joey flexed his fingers.

The man's coffee had fallen off the table and was currently painting the sidewalk.

He reached into his pocket again and produced a five-dollar bill. He tossed it in front of the stunned, wide-eyed, slack-jawed girl, and turned his attention to her crumpled, half-bawling boyfriend as he started back on his way to his goddamned sandwich.

"Sorry 'bout the coffee. Lemme guess. You're an only child."

Big Man no speak. Woman speak for him. Woman say: "...Y-Yes...he...is...?"

Scared. She was scared of him.

Well, _good._

Idiot. _Idiots._

Joey sneered. "Figures."

And he was gone.

He was halfway down the street when his phone rang.

* * *

**11.**

* * *

She'd been sent the email nearly a month ago, but it was a forward and she'd quickly lost track of it in a sudden influx of school updates and scholarship opportunities, and it didn't come up again until...well...

It was a link to an online interview. From the message before the forward, Téa Gardner knew that it had to do with one of the Kaiba Corporation's newest projects, an action-adventure computer game called _Night of the End-Rider._

The interview was with the head of the development team.

Mokuba Kaiba.

One of Téa's friends from high school had sent the video to her, claiming in her message that it was, "so adorable it should be illegal." She didn't know what possessed her to watch it. Principle, maybe. But as she did, she realized her friend had been right.

Mokuba's eyes were aglow with excitement over this new project his brother had allowed him to run, and even though the video was blurry and pixelated, Téa could see it. Here was a boy who loved his life, who was at the height of happiness and pride and enthusiasm. He was so bubbly that laughter actually escaped his mouth like a living thing, with no prompting whatsoever.

The interviewer, a young woman who went by the alias of Daywalker, caught her subject's infectious euphoria partway through, and the resulting dialogue was ultimately one of the most pleasant exchanges Téa had ever seen.

Or...that _would _have been true.

If...

So, Daywalker asked about six minutes in, grinning like a little girl, how did you come to head this project? I know you're the company's vice-president, but Master Kaiba hasn't ever done this before. Has he?

_"It was kind of a bet," _was Mokuba's answer. _"I was having trouble with science class last year. My grade was...pretty bad. Niisama said if I brought it up, he'd let me pick Kaiba-Corp's next project. So...well, I brought it up. So now I'm making my own game, and...it's awesome!"_

Daywalker laughed. Mokuba laughed with her. She asked him the hardest part of the project so far, and Mokuba said,

_"Making sure it meets up with my brother's standards. He told me that if I don't put everything I have into it, then it won't be published under our company's name. And I want people to see this game, so I have to make sure I do it right."_

Wow. Harsh.

_"Niisama just wants to make sure our customers are happy," _said Mokuba, not quite defensive but getting there. _"I think he's right. I want to make sure everybody likes my game as much as they like his."_

Kaiba-Corp's games are some of the most popular in history, Daywalker said. Innovative, challenging, rewarding. The production values are ridiculous. I'm sure we can expect the same out of your project, then?

_"I sure hope so."_

Are you using Kaiba-Corp's usual development team?

_"Mostly. I brought in a few people to help out, though. My game's based on a comic book, you know, so I have to be extra careful. Games like this usually don't do too well. Niisama says they're quicksand. But I want to prove to everybody that if you're careful, you can do it right."_

It was a long video. Twenty-two minutes. Most of it centered on Mokuba's game, and how he was going about putting it together. Téa was surprised at just how well the young Kaiba presented himself. She'd only ever seen him as a little boy, and hadn't really thought about the fact that he _was _the vice-president of one of the largest commercial entities on the west coast, working for one of the most demanding, critical employers in the country.

But toward the end, some personal things came up. Daywalker started talking about Kaiba, and Mokuba—as always—was absolutely thrilled to wax poetic on his hero. If possible, even _more _pride and enthusiasm shone on his face as he spoke, and Téa was sure that it was this section of the interview that Zoe (a little sister, herself) had been most affected by.

When Daywalker admitted to being a rather big fan of Kaiba's, even blushing slightly as she said it, Mokuba looked about ready to cry. Something bordering on worship visited the young Kaiba's entire essence, and it only made Daywalker blush more furiously.

This is the first time you've done an interview without your brother, isn't it?

Mokuba nodded. _"Yeah."_

She asked him if there was anything Mokuba wanted to say to his brother, now that he'd shown Kaiba that he could charm the hell out of the entire internet all on his own. Téa actually found a small laugh at that. It caught in her throat, though, at Mokuba's answer.

The simplest, yet most impactful thing she'd ever heard.

He looked at the camera.

_"Love you, Niisama."_

...The screen went black.

And after a few seconds, bold white text faded into view. The original video had been edited.

The newly-added white message read:

* * *

_**Dedicated to the memory of Mokuba Yagami Kaiba**_

_**The little brother we all wish we had.**_

_**July 7, 1996 – October 13, 2006**_

**誠心誠意**

* * *

The phone rang.

Choking back tears, Téa answered.

* * *

**12.**

* * *

He hated the little snot.

He never told Big Sis that, because one of the most important things Joey had taught him was the glory of tact. Not because his blond best friend was tactful, mind, but because he _wasn't. _Joey liked to rush in, guns blazing, and rely on his instincts, his reflexes, and he had been courting the ever-so-seductive Lady Luck for about as long as Tristan had known him.

So Tristan knew better than to _tell_ Stacia Taylor that he hated his only nephew. But that didn't stop the hatred from existing. He babysat a lot, ever since Johji had been born—and what the hell kind of name was Johji, anyway? Honestly, Tristan loved his sister, but sometimes he thought she was about two steps just below batshit crazy.

So yes, he'd had a lot of experience with the...ahem...boy. And it had only come to reinforce Tristan's longstanding belief that he would _never _have children. Ever. Johji was everything stereotypically "taxing" about toddlers, and not a weekend went by during which his sister's "little angel" (she wasn't delusional, she just had a dark sense of humor) didn't break _something._

The only thing that stopped Johji's rampages (that Tristan had discovered so far) was a collection of DVDs Stacia had managed to procure from an online auction the previous year. These discs held every single _Magic & Wizards _match ever recorded that featured one particular person.

One of the most prolific tournament champions the game had ever seen:

Seto Sasaki-Yagami Kaiba.

Since beginning tournament-level play at the age of fifteen, Kaiba had played in nearly every major tournament, and any number of minor ones. It was speculated that this was because _Magic & Wizards _was one of his company's flagship franchises. Kaiba-Corp was a longstanding partner of Industrial Illusions, and the world-famous developer of the Duel Disk, and its revolutionary _Solid Vision _hologram technology.

All this Tristan knew both from firsthand experience and from the accursed videos his nephew loved to watch over and over and goddamn over again. He knew Kaiba's full name; he didn't have middle names, per se. He had added the surnames of his parents (Yagami, from his father; Sasaki, from his mother) to his own out of respect. Or, so the reporters claimed. Tristan had a feeling it wasn't as simple as that. Nothing involving Kaiba was ever simple.

Johji liked Kaiba because Kaiba was the best. He'd dominated the charts for almost a full year, but that year had been a takeover the likes of which nobody could have ever expected. Kaiba, like the person who would eventually dethrone him (Yugi) had come out of absolutely nowhere and clawed his way to the top of the dueling circuit in much the same way he'd claimed the title of CEO: absolutely ruthlessly.

Tristan had tried to mention that, as Pegasus Crawford had beaten Kaiba during the Duelist Kingdom tournament, and Yugi had then defeated Crawford, Kaiba wasn't the best anymore, but third best.

Johji wouldn't hear it.

"No!" he often said. "Kaiba-sama! Best _ever!"_

Kaiba-sama. He'd been calling Kaiba that for a while now; probably picked up from Mokuba's example. Johji had always been jealous of the younger Kaiba brother. Angrily jealous. Tristan had half-expected the kid to be _excited _when the news broke that Mokuba had been murdered. This hadn't been the case, though. Stacia had taught her son as well as she could, and he'd been properly, respectfully subdued about it.

The fact that Kaiba had all but laid out his plans to commit suicide probably had something to do with that. Sure, Johji didn't quite understand the full implications of suicide, or even death, yet. But he knew that his hero would be gone, forever, if it happened.

Since Mokuba's death, and Kaiba's subsequent withdrawal from the public, Johji had been watching his DVD collection even more zealously than before. As Tristan sat on the couch, in a dark mood, his nephew sat on the floor just in front of the television, watching a montage of some of Kaiba's best moments (or whatever), set to music.

A music video.

Of course.

No doubt the music had been chosen for its fast, booming, charged beat. Perfect for the fast-paced editing and the sweeping, dramatic movements Kaiba chose to employ. He was a natural showman, born to work a crowd. Rap-rock, with its crunching guitar and quick lyrics, was perfect for this kind of thing.

Kaiba probably hated it.

Fucking kid. Tristan found a sarcastic grin as he realized that he was starting to _care _what Kaiba liked or hated. And it was all...'cuz of _him._

Tristan'd told himself he hated kids. Just in general. Not just Johji, not just infants and toddlers, but children in general. It'd seemed easier that way. Less of an attack on his family. But then Mokuba'd gone and proved him wrong. Here was somebody he could accept, somebody that didn't piss him off with every word (the boy's constant sermons on his brother's holy ascendency only bothered Tristan until he realized he'd been much the same way about Stacia when _he'd _been ten or so).

And then, just when he'd really started to like the little guy...

Damn it.

_Damn it!_

Tristan sighed and pulled himself from the couch, heading for the kitchen. He stood there, in the doorway, looking at the room in stupid wonder for a second until he remembered he was in his sister's home, not his own apartment. He shook his head and stepped onto the tile floor.

"What you doing?" Johji asked from the living room.

"Getting a drink," Tristan replied automatically.

"I want drink, too! Nilla!" This was Johji's name for vanilla-flavored...anything. Tristan checked the refrigerator and found a six-pack of vanilla-flavored cola. He grabbed one for himself and waited. A few seconds later, he heard, "Please!"

He took a second can.

For Johji, soda was a treat that bordered on mythical. The Nectar of the Gods. He was lucky if his mother allowed him a can a month. Tristan figured, considering the recent events surrounding his idol, the kid could use a pick-me-up.

He'd said please, after all, and...well, anything to shut him up.

Tristan figured that if he played the good cop, maybe it'd make things easier. Eventually.

Johji's plump little face lit up as his uncle tossed him the soda. When Tristan flopped back down onto the couch (Stacia kept telling him to stop that, that it would eventually break the couch and then he'd have to pay her back for a new one, but he hardly ever remembered), he raised an eyebrow as his nephew clambered up with him.

Johji struggled with the tab on the top of the can, finally wrested it open and let out a little victory shout like he'd just won something, then frowned thoughtfully for a moment. He held it out to Tristan. "Cheer!" he cried.

Tristan actually chuckled.

Okay...that was cute.

He clicked Johji's can with his own. "Bottoms up," he said, and they drank.

They watched some of Kaiba's old duels, side-by-side like drinking buddies or something, and eventually, even though Tristan would've thought the drink would've had him wired for at least fourteen hours or so, Johji fell asleep.

He used his uncle's knee as a pillow, cradling his empty soda can in his tiny hands, and started to snore. Tristan sighed, smirking, and leaned back. A nap. Holy crap. Talk about a godsend.

Stacia showed up, along with Derek (her husband), about twenty minutes later. Tristan was awake, but kind of in a zone. So he blinked wearily at them and gave a halfhearted little wave. "Oi."

Johji was still snoring.

Stacia's smile reached her ears. "I swear, kid, you're the only person who can _ever _get that boy to take a nap." Tristan shrugged. She picked her son up with the ease of long practice (he didn't even twitch), and she saw the can he still clutched in his hands. "And he didn't start wanting this stuff until he saw you drinking it, you know. He hated vanilla."

Tristan stood up and frowned. "Seriously?"

"Yeah," Derek said. "Wouldn't even eat vanilla ice cream."

"...Huh."

"I know he's a handful," Stacia said. "But he really does look up to you. If Uncle likes something, Jo likes it, too. Your word is law. Thanks for looking after him again. I promise, I'll pay you back somehow."

Tristan gave a lopsided grin. "No worries. S'what family's for, right? I mean, besides the mental abuse." He turned toward the door. "Hey, I'm gonna head out. You guys have a good one."

"Thanks again," Stacia called out as he opened the door.

"You're a lifesaver, bro," Derek added.

Tristan waved again without turning around.

He was in the driveway, one leg swung over his bike, when his phone started to vibrate.

* * *

**13.**

* * *

All four of them were gathered in the same place for the first time since Mokuba's funeral.

Yugi had opted to meet out in the parking lot behind his grandfather's shop. Apparently he didn't want his family listening in, and his bedroom was too small for all of them. Joey, who had arrived first, was dribbling a faded white basketball as Tristan rode up on his ten-speed. Téa came out of the building with a pitcher of iced tea and a few plastic cups.

Yugi was standing in the middle of the lot, staring at the sky.

"All right," Joey said, tossing the ball aside as Tristan slid off his bike. "We're all here, Yug. What's goin' on?" He took a cup of tea from Téa but didn't drink. He was obviously concerned. So were Téa and Tristan. The spiky-haired teen was somber, distant, almost lethargic. As he turned to face his friends, though, they saw a kind of simmering, slow-cooking hope coming through on his face. He was torn. He looked like he wanted to believe something, but couldn't. Not yet.

He put his hands on the Millennium Puzzle hanging from his neck, cradling it. He looked at them all. "...I don't know if I could explain this if I tried. I can't...I can't...well. I'll let him tell you. I hope you can convince me. I really do."

Joey and Tristan looked at each other.

What the hell?

"Yugi...are you talking about..._him?"_

At this point, even Téa herself wasn't sure who she meant by "him." But Yugi nodded.

He closed his eyes, and the eye in the center of the golden pyramid in his hands began to glow. Yugi's bearing, his very _being, _changed. His stance turned easy, his head lifted and he looked confident. Almost cocky. His lips curved in a familiar smirk.

"...Yami..." Téa breathed.

"So I have been called," came a deep, velvety, _dark _voice from Yugi's lips. Joey's eyes narrowed slightly. He still wasn't sure what to make of this...version of his best friend. Tristan was less superstitious about it, but still less than comfortable.

Téa was awestruck.

"What's this about...Yami?" Tristan asked.

Yugi's body moved. It didn't feel right saying that Yugi himself moved. This wasn't Yugi. This was another entity, using Yugi's body. Pacing, arms clasped behind the back, looking as though he were briefing them on a mission they were about to undertake.

"You," he said, "at the core of it. And Yugi. And, consequently, me."

There was no response to this.

Yami continued. "It has been a week since the death of one Mokuba Yagami Kaiba. And you all have been affected by it. Perhaps more than you expected. I, myself, have been affected by it, and I can tell you that it surprises me to admit that."

"...Why? He's a kid. Kids aren't s'posed to die."

Yami chuckled in response to Joey's logic. "Your society has pampered you. I have seen innumerable children sent to Asar. In their grieving parents' arms, in their beds, abandoned on fields of war. Assassinated in the dark. Left to starve, left to freeze. Tortured, murdered, raped, eaten."

Téa blanched.

Joey stared.

Tristan looked slightly green.

"Children _should _be left to grow into adults before they die. This is truth. But the world lies, and you are all sorely mistaken if you think that the death of a boy of ten years, but one more of thousands in my experience, would affect me." Yami's eyes, halfway between violet and crimson like amethysts spattered with blood, gleamed hungrily.

For no reason they could understand, Yami withdrew something from a pocket of Yugi's jeans: a standard deck of playing cards. He began to shuffle, slowly, mechanically, not looking at them. He stopped suddenly, and withdrew the top card. Holding it between two fingers, he flipped it to show them.

The Ace of Spades.

"But _Kaiba. _Now _he _is an anomaly."

There was a moment of silence.

Tristan was the first to recover: "Yeah. A celebrity who hates people. Shocking."

Again, Yami looked amused. "You sound so dismissive," he said. "Are you telling me that Kaiba's current...state, doesn't interest you? The man has publicly admitted plans for suicide. Even if you do not sympathize...that has to intrigue you. Hasn't it?"

Tristan didn't answer.

Joey did. "Not really. What else was gonna happen?"

Yami raised an eyebrow. "...Hm. Interesting."

"This is morbid," Téa mumbled, sullen. "Why are we talking about this? What's this about, Yami? Even if Kaiba _is _going to go through with it...he probably is...what can _we _do about it? He's not going to listen to us. The only reason he ever even _talked _to us is because Mokuba forced him." Her voice hitched at the boy's name.

"You don't wanna cheer Kaiba up, do you?" Tristan asked. "'Cuz even if Mokuba _was _alive, that guy don't _do _cheerful."

Yami chuckled. "Are you willing to bet on that?" he asked.

"Yeah! I mean, seriously, man! Okay, so maybe we're not all authorities on Kaiba's moods or whatever, but I'd like to think I know enough about him to know _that! _The guy practically—"

"Lived for the boy," Yami interrupted. "I know. Yugi believes the same, and I do not refute the claim. And _that _is why it is possible. _That _is why he can be...ahem...saved. The answer, my friends, is simple."

From Yami's voice, the word "friends" didn't come out the way it should have.

It sounded more like "puppets."

_"What _answer?" Tristan asked.

"Yeah, Yu—uh, Yami. What the hell can _we _do?"

"I would have thought," he said, "that you might have guessed by now. But, perhaps you are more...narrow in your thought processes than I thought. No matter. I will tell you. The answer, of course, is to..."

He drew a second card from the deck in his left hand and grinned at it.

He added it to the ace in his other hand and showed them.

The Eight of Hearts.

"...Give him back his brother."

* * *

**14.**

* * *

"Seto-sama..."

Gentle. So gentle. He would normally have taken offense at this; it implied weakness. It implied pity. So he had been taught, and so he believed. Yoshimi pitied him. But of course, why care about that now? He _should _be pitied now. He was a pathetic waste of resources now, and the only person for whom he'd strained so mightily to be strong was gone now.

Was that not the very definition of pitiable weakness?

So he said nothing. A part of him, long-buried, even appreciated the gesture. She slipped into the room with tea, still steaming, and nothing else. No sugar, no cream, no milk. She had learned. She said, "Have you slept, Seto-sama?"

He did not move. His eyes continued to scan the wall in front of him. He muttered, "...An hour," and left his answer at that. Yoshimi did not press. It was not her place to press. She simply sighed, nodded. She turned to leave.

"Is there anything else you need?" she asked.

He did not answer.

She nodded again. This meant no, and she knew it.

She had learned.

Not from him. No. He had no time to teach his staff how to do their jobs. Yoshimi had learned from _Him._ Perhaps that was why he liked her. She had listened to _Him. _She had paid attention to _Him. _And, as expected, _He_ had liked her, in turn.

And that, for some intangible reason, still mattered to him.

Whatever _He _had liked...was still important.

She stopped in the doorway and turned, glancing at the articles, maps, and photographs plastering the wall of the spare bedroom in which he spent his days now, looking like the headquarters of an international spy or professional assassin, and sighed. She wanted to say something to him. She wanted to tell him that this obsession was unhealthy, that she worried for his health and his mental state, that _He _wouldn't have wanted this.

Of course this was true; _He _would have wanted him to ignore his promises, to abandon them and focus on himself for once in his life. To let _Him _go and find his own happiness. To stop worrying about _Him, _to stop sacrificing for _Him, _and just...live.

But he couldn't.

There was no point.

And so she knew, already, that there was no point in telling him.

She said, "I'll be cleaning the halls, then. I'll be here if you need anything else, Seto-sama." She bowed. "Good night."

He did not answer.

She did not expect one.

She had learned.

* * *

**15.**

* * *

Yami glanced at the cards still in his hand, gave a dark little chuckle, and put them back in the deck before slipping it back into his pocket and crossing his arms.

He said, "So...do you understand the theory, here?"

His audience looked apprehensive. Scared. Almost sick. But, of course, that was logical. He knew that much. They were brave, each in their own way, but they were still children. Still naive, still coddled, still innocent. But that, he thought, was the key to convincing them. As Yugi sat inside his mind, listening, Yami could tell that he was beginning to soften what defenses he had mustered.

He was coming around.

It was time to step back. Time to let Yugi handle them.

Yami shifted.

Watched.

Waited.

Yugi began to speak, and of course they listened. He didn't talk about Kaiba, which was fine. Yami didn't mind much if his host didn't bother mentioning _his _motivations for this scheme. Better to play to theirs. And so he talked about Mokuba.

About how he was so brave, in spite of what he'd had to go through in his short life. About how it was never fair for someone to die so young, and wasn't it their responsibility as his elders _and _as his friends to do something about it if they could? How many people wished they could do this? How many people wished with inexorably broken hearts and endlessly teary eyes to be given a chance like this?

He presented an impressive case. For such a soft-spoken individual, he was quite persuasive when he wanted to be. He mentioned Duelist Kingdom. He mentioned that if they had been more observant, if they had been paying more attention, Mokuba never would have been thrown in Pegasus's dungeon, and he never would have had his soul stolen.

Very true.

Yami still felt a spasm of raw fury toward his host's friends for that.

He had made a promise at Duelist Kingdom. He had put himself on the line, put every last chip on the table, for that boy when the man named Saruwatari had taken him. Why he'd bothered, he still didn't know. Perhaps to see Kaiba's reaction when he found out. But Saruwatari did not play games, of course. Saruwatari did not gamble with his employer's most treasured chess piece. Not _personally._

Yami had had no trouble playing against a stand-in for Mokuba's safety. Any challenge was good enough for him. And the Imposter had done a fair enough job of impersonating Kaiba that the game had been at least somewhat entertaining.

But of course, the point had been to procure Mokuba from the enemy. To give him back to Kaiba, and to handle Pegasus without interference. The absolute _least _he could have expected from them, (especially Joey and Tristan, who were accomplished fighters trained on the "mean streets" of Domino's underbelly), would have been to _watch _the boy, and make sure Saruwatari kept up his end of the bargain.

Of course, they hadn't, and Saruwatari made off with the boy..

For that failure, if absolutely nothing else, they owed this sacrifice to Mokuba.

They owed it to _him._

Yugi felt his mounting indignation, and his body stiffened. He said nothing in direct response to it, but his testimony became even more impassioned. _Now _he began talking about Kaiba. He asked Joey, point-blank, how _he _would feel if it had been Serenity. He asked Tristan how his sister would feel, if it had been _him._

He didn't ask Téa a direct question. Instead, he just gave her a look.

It was enough.

Their resolve was breaking.

Yugi stepped back, and Yami stepped up.

It was time to call it.

"So..." he said, now without a smile but still with some amount of amusement twinkling in his eyes. The three of them all flinched at his sudden return. He flicked the two playing cards he had displayed earlier back into his hand. "What do you say?"

He crunched them into a fist, opened his hand again, and blew a cloud of ash into the air.

"Shall we discard this dead man's hand?"

* * *

**16.**

* * *

All the proof she ever needed that things had changed around this estate came from the fact that he didn't order her out of the room as soon as he realized she was there. If there was one rule, one ironclad ordinance, on the Kaiba Estate, it was that _no one _was to disturb Seto-sama while he was sleeping.

The only person with permission to be anywhere near Seto-sama on the rare occasions he succumbed to sleep was, of course, Bocchan. But it seemed to Akiko as though the rules had changed now.

She had come into the room Seto-sama had since claimed as his private space (as far from his old bedchamber, and Bocchan's, as he could get without leaving the building) only to gather the dishes from his evening meal, but she had very nearly turned away when she saw that her employer's eyes were closed.

Of course, Seto-sama would never accept, "I didn't want to disturb you," as a valid reason to shirk one's responsibilities to the estate. Or, at least, the _old _Seto-sama wouldn't have. And Akiko was prepared to follow the old Seto-sama's instructions to the letter, whether the new (broken) Seto-sama expected it of her or not.

And so she entered.

Of course, Seto-sama was a light sleeper, and so it had been a fool's errand from the start to attempt not to wake him. A veteran soldier would have been too loud. The only person Akiko could think of that was silent enough to get the jump on the trained heir of Kaiba Gozaburo was Yugi Mutou.

As incredulous, indeed ridiculous, as that seemed.

Akiko turned to glance at Seto-sama as she made to leave and jumped when she realized his eyes were open. He was watching her studiously, and she felt her face grow hot. He murmured, in a tired, toneless voice, "Yoshimi."

She inclined her head. "My apologies, Seto-sama. I did not intend to disturb you."

"It's...no problem."

She blinked.

"...Seto-sama?"

But he no longer heard her. He flexed his fingers and looked down at the paperwork in his lap (not from Kaiba-Corp, of that much Akiko was sure), which he'd been marking with a thin felt marker.

He looked exhausted, but more than that, he looked completely unfocused.

His face was pinched, his eyes blank, his hair haggard and unkempt.

He looked dead.

But beneath the surface, Akiko realized, there was more to it.

He looked ready to cry.

* * *

**17.**

* * *

She wasn't sure what made her bring it with her. Maybe it was just for comfort.

Like a security blanket or something.

But as she walked, cold and jittery and altogether scared out of her mind, she wished she hadn't, because Yami was still in control of Yugi's body and, for the first time, Téa was face-to-face with what Yugi often called, "the reason he likes that name."

Yami had a _very _dark sense of humor.

As the four of them walked through the front gates of Vinewood Terrace—what Kaiba had called the neighborhood of the dead—Yami was up front, almost strolling. Joey and Tristan were tense, inching past headstones as if on a military training mission, and Téa was shivering. Her coat was too thin.

But Yami looked like he'd simply stepped out into his backyard.

He was singing something, and it took Téa a moment to realize that it was the same song filtering into her ears by way of the headphones wrapped around her head. It sent an all new shiver down her back, and she wished she hadn't brought her CD player with her.

It had seemed disrespectful to go into a cemetery listening to music, but she'd thought at the time that if she didn't have _something_ to distract her, then she would have turned tail and been unable to go through with it. It had seemed like a way to bolster her courage.

Not anymore.

Yami was singing, voice lilting and far happier than the somber mood of the ballad playing in Téa's ears.

Joey stared at him, stunned, for a moment. "...You're fucked up, you know that?"

Yami pretended not to hear him, grinning like a little boy at Christmas and winking at Téa as he continued to sing.

Téa, despite herself, blushed.

"Like we got room to talk, Joe," Tristan muttered, huddled in a thick leather jacket he'd gotten from his sister on his birthday. "Think of how _we_ were, back when we first met 'im."

Joey raised an eyebrow. "...Huh. Good point."

Yami stopped, glanced down to his left. "Here we are," he said, and gestured.

Mokuba's grave was marked by a nondescript stone identical to the pair of stones next to it. Téa read the inscription, remembered the dedication at the end of the video she'd watched, and her eyes began to burn.

* * *

**Mokuba Yagami Kaiba**

**JULY 7, 1996 – OCTOBER 13, 2006**

**誠心誠意**

* * *

"What...does that mean?" she asked, voice hitching.

Yami glanced where she pointed. His happy smile sobered a bit, but remained on his face. He said, _"Seishinseii. _Whole-hearted devotion." He chuckled and glanced up at the sky. "Touching, Kaiba. Very nice."

Téa found a smile for the first time in several hours.

Until Joey pointed out, "...Oi. I think these're their parents. Look at this."

And she looked at the marker to the left of Mokuba's.

* * *

**YUKI YAGAMI**

**JUNE 23, 1961 – JULY 8, 1996**

**Devoted Wife and Mother  
****She will be Missed**

* * *

And to the left of this:

* * *

**KOHAKU YAGAMI**

**NOVEMBER 20, 1964 – AUGUST 15, 1999**

**His Strength was his Weakness**

* * *

"Oh, God..." Téa managed. "She...their mother, she..."

"Died right after giving birth to Mokuba," Tristan muttered. "Yeah. Father died in a car accident when he was three. Kaiba was eight." He shook his head. "Kaiba's the only real parent he ever had. Small wonder the guy put his life on the line, out at Pegasus's castle. Kaiba was...he was a dad, lookin' out for his kid."

"He put more than his _life_ on the table in that castle," Yami murmured.

"How you know that?" Joey asked Tristan.

"My nephew," the brunette replied. "Big Kaiba fanatic. Watches anything he can on the guy." He pointed to Yuki's grave. "Her maiden name was Sasaki. Kaiba took it on when he turned eighteen, kind of like a middle name."

"Mokuba's only got the one," Joey said, gesturing.

Tristan shrugged. "Yagami. Dad's name. No clue why he don't have both."

"His strength was his weakness..." Yami murmured, thoughtfully. "I _thought _so. Kaiba takes after his beloved father. With that in mind, it won't be long before we hear about _Kaiba _being killed in an automobile accident. So what say we get to business before that happens, shall we?" He bowed to Yuki's grave. "My sincerest apologies, _Okaasama, _but I am sure you will understand. We must take your youngest back for now. Dear Seto-chan needs him."

"Seto-chan?" Joey repeated incredulously. "Who the _fuck _would call Kaiba 'Seto-chan?'"

_"She _would," Tristan muttered.

"Seriously?"

"He wasn't _always _a prick."

Joey looked skeptical.

"My, but don't _you _have sympathy for a man who lost his mother at eight years old and became a father at eleven," Yami said, and there was no real venom to his voice. Still, Joey flinched and fell silent.

Yami glanced down at his watch. "...Hm. Well, look at that." He showed the others that it was past midnight. "It is now, officially, Kaiba's birthday. How ironic." Nobody believed the surprise in his voice. He'd planned this from the start. "So...you understand the sacrifice you must make for this ritual to work. Yes?"

He looked at each of them in turn.

"Yes."

"Uh-huh."

"...Yeah."

"You all are willing to _make_ this sacrifice? Understand that once I begin, there is no turning back. Interruption will kill us all. If you must take time to decide, take it now. There must be _no _doubt."

It didn't take long. Standing here, it felt as if Kaiba's parents were watching them, daring them to back out. All Téa had to do was look at the Japanese inscription beneath Mokuba's (pitifully short) lifespan again, and she was convinced.

"I'm ready," she said.

"Let's do this," Joey added.

"...Go," Tristan said, drawing in a shaky breath that betrayed his nervousness.

Yami closed his eyes, and let out a shaky breath.

He opened them a moment later.

The grin was back in full force.

His eyes were crazed with adrenaline.

"Well, then. Let's all give Kaiba his birthday present."

* * *

**18.**

* * *

"You're still here."

Akiko jumped. She whirled to face Roland Ackerman, Seto-sama's personal assistant. He did not wear his usual sunglasses, and it was strange to see his eyes. They were tired eyes, nervous eyes.

"The others have all gone home," she said. "I was just finishing up."

Roland glanced at the blanket hung over one arm of the couch of the front parlor, where Akiko had been dusting when he found her. "You haven't been sleeping at home," he observed. It didn't sound like a reprimand. Akiko blushed.

"I just...I wanted to make sure...in case Seto-sama needs anything..."

Roland smiled. "I see." The smile quickly faded. "You...do realize that Master Kaiba has been on borrowed time ever since the funeral. He won't last much longer. Once he ascertains the identity of the man responsible for Young Master Mokuba's death, and...exacts payment for the crime...there is no hope for him."

Some part of Akiko did know this. She _did _know that her employer was at the frayed ends of his rope, and he was only holding on because he had a final mission to complete. She wasn't sure if he would explicitly commit suicide, or if he would just stop eating. Stop drinking. Stop maintaining any semblance of health.

But she knew that once Bocchan's death was avenged, Seto-sama would have no reason to keep going.

"I...I do," she said. "I know that, and I know there's no reason to try to...convince him to stay. He won't listen, and it will...it will only make him _more _convinced that he has to do it." Roland nodded somberly. "But...but for now, Seto-sama is still here, and I'm still being paid to work here. If I can do anything at all to...to help him along, right now...then I intend to do it."

"He doesn't expect, nor _want, _that from you."

"No. He doesn't. But Bocchan would."

Roland's eyes snapped wide. He frowned thoughtfully. "...Yes. Yes, I guess that's true."

"You _guess_, Mister Ackerman? Come now. You spent as much time with them as any of us. You know how protective Bocchan was. I know some of the others don't care, and I know _why _they don't care. But if I make it to Heaven when I die, and meet Bocchan there, I intend to look him in the eye."

The smile returned. "I see. Fair enough."

He turned toward the front doors, and started for them. He said, "But you know, Akiko, somehow I doubt the young master would forgive even you. When it came to Master Kaiba, he was as strict and demanding as Gozaburo ever was. And the very fact that we intend to let his beloved Niisama die is enough to damn us all."

Akiko frowned.

"That may be," she said, "but only one person could ever convince him to stay. And unless Bocchan walks through that door and tells me the secret personally, I'm not going to insult Seto-sama any more than I already have. He's had a hard life. He deserves to rest."

Roland watched her for a moment.

Finally, he said, as he turned to leave,

"...I see why he hired you, Akiko."

* * *

**19.**

* * *

His eyes burned. His muscles ached. He was exhausted, and it would have been right around now that _He _would have come into the room to tell him to go to sleep. And he would have said, In a little bit, Mokuba, and _He _would have said, You said that an hour ago, Niisama, you look dead, go sleep, please? and he would have eventually let _Him _convince him, and he would have slept.

Not anymore.

It was about the time he realized that a part of him was relieved at the lack of interruption that he started to cry.

* * *

**20.**

* * *

Téa was sobbing openly, and Tristan was still vomiting.

Joey had essentially recovered, but his face was still pale, and his eyes were bloodshot. His hands shook as he reached up to run them through his sweat-drenched hair. "Holy _fuck, _man!" he barked at Yami. "Don't tell me all _that _was just to get the goddamn casket out of the ground! I could'a brought a shovel!"

Yami chuckled.

"No," he said, in a placating voice, as he approached Mokuba's coffin. "Your part is done. Rest, my friends. You've earned it. And, ah...Tristan? Take care not to make a mess of Okaasama's grave marker, won't you? I doubt it would be much appreciated."

Tristan stumbled backward and spat onto the ground. "Jesus!" he hacked, struggling back to his feet. He shuffled over to Téa and helped her stand. "That better've fucking worked," he snapped.

Yami only grinned.

He placed his hands on the surface of the coffin, closed his eyes, and waited.

"What happens now?" Téa asked, still sniffling.

"Yeah...any fire, lightning? Confetti? A fuckin' _mint _on our pillow?" Joey demanded, then winced and held his head.

Yami didn't answer, even when Yugi began asking the same questions.

Patience...patience...

"Asar will provide," Yami murmured, and laughed.

"...What?"

"Never mind."

Time went on, and he knew they were growing restless. It seemed too easy. So simple, so little fanfare. The only proof they had that their efforts had done anything was the pain. The fact that Mokuba's casket was lying in front of them was the only other indication that anything at all had changed.

They wondered if this was nothing but a sick joke.

In the end, Yami wasn't sure that it wasn't.

But then it came. A knock. A cry. A confused voice, soft and scratching from two weeks of absolute, stifling silence. Yami's grin widened and, with a flourish, the airtight steel container meant to house Mokuba Kaiba for eternity was thrown open again.

"...Good God..." Tristan breathed.

"Holy _shit..." _Joey agreed.

Téa couldn't speak.

Yami crossed his arms, adjusted his shoulders, and chuckled.

Mokuba Kaiba, sitting amidst the only casualty the magic had claimed this night—the tattered remains of the black suit in which he'd been buried—looking pale and confused and frightened and cold but _alive, _doubtlessly alive, stared at his brother's rival as if he were some breed of angel.

"I believe the operative phrase now is, 'ta-da.'"

* * *

**END.**

* * *

**_Asar is one interpretation of the original Egyptian name of the god we know as "Osiris," the final Judge of the Dead._**

**_Yami's card trick refers to Aces and Eights, the "dead man's hand." The legend of this five-card draw hand refers to the cards held by Wild Bill Hickock when he was murdered in August of 1876. The mythic hand holds both black eights as well as the black aces. I bent the legend a bit so as to fit Yami's point just a bit better. I hope that I may be forgiven. The Ace of Spades is classic Seto. Powerful, singular, decisive. The eight of Hearts, thus, is Mokuba. Why Hearts? Because its shape is the precise opposite of the spade. And in several ways, the same holds true for the Kaibas. Not enough to entirely overshadow the similarities, but I hope that my point still stands._**

**_ Right now, Yami holds them both in his hand, side by side, inexorably linked, just like the cards. And I'd venture to think he enjoys it very much._**

**_Or...does he?_**


	3. Mercy of the Gods

_**I underestimated the length of this one the last time I updated. The truth is, there will be six sections. So this is the halfway mark. **_

_**Seto's presence, while important in the last two chapters, begins to take a turn here. He begins to take a more active role in the story, more in line with my usual M.O. If I had to pick a protagonist at this point in the game, it would likely still be Yami. But Seto and Mokuba are stepping up now, and the dynamic between the three of them begins to reveal itself. This is not your typical relationship in any sense of the word, but it gets the job done. Not every servant of God is especially likable, after all.**_

* * *

**PART 3:**  
**Mercy of the Gods  
**

* * *

**21.  
**

* * *

"There a chance anybody's gonna see us out here?" Tristan asked when he could speak, looking annoyed with himself because he should have asked this question sooner. "I mean, how are we gonna—"

"No," Yami said quickly. "I have this in hand. I've been planning it for a week."

"You have?" Téa asked.

"Planning...what?" asked Mokuba, still without much of a voice. He was holding himself; it was late, and his ruined suit offered no protection from the night air. He was watching Yami carefully now, with the same scrutiny so often seen in his mentor.

Yami winked. "Why, your 'Welcome Home' party, of course."

"...Huh?"

"Do you...don't you...remember?" Téa asked.

Yami raised an eyebrow. Actually, that was a good question.

Mokuba frowned. "I...I remember..._something. _But I...I don't...why am I...?" He looked around, and finally realized where he was. He looked down, saw his own coffin. He looked to the side, saw his own headstone.

Realization set into the boy's face like a living thing.

Yami wondered...would he—

_ "Niisama!"_

Yes. He would.

Sheer, unfettered terror. Mokuba looked ready to vault out of the casket and run back home, even though he didn't know where to go from here to _reach _home. Yami could only imagine what would happen if someone on a late-night stroll happened to see him; a boy about as easily recognized in Domino City as Mickey Mouse at Disneyland, two weeks dead, running naked through the streets at two in the morning.

Yami snickered.

Not his finest moment.

"What's so funny?" Mokuba cried, eyes wide and fevered, voice gaining in strength now.

Yami held up a hand. "Nothing. I...wondered if you would...well, worry not, little one. Your brother is alive. Not in the best of health, I'm sure, but alive."

This answer clearly didn't satisfy the younger Kaiba brother. He still looked horror-struck.

"Let's get out of here," Joey said. "It's cold, and fuckin' creepy."

Mokuba looked down, suddenly embarrassed, and tried to gather together enough scraps of black cloth to cover himself. Tristan chuckled, removed his tan trench coat, and tossed it to the boy. "Here, take this. C'mon. Better move quick and get you back home. I think it's past curfew."

The boy wrapped himself in the tan cloth gratefully, and stepped gingerly out of the coffin. Questions upon questions were written on his face, but clearly the idea of seeing his brother (and seeing what damage had been done in his absence) took precedence.

For the first time in its history, an inhabitant of Vinewood Terrace Cemetery walked out of it. Mokuba was pale, and his hair was an absolute mess, but his eyes were clear and vibrant again. His muscles worked again, his body moved again, his blood was pumping again.

Such a shame, Yami thought, that he had been embalmed.

The entire process would have been far less complicated if Mokuba's body had been left alone. But, even after thousands of years, the preservation of the dead was paramount. Whether for the sake of symbolism, safety, or whatever other excuse...nature could never be permitted to run its proper course.

_You're one to talk about nature, after what you've just done, _Yugi's voice came through in his head, sounding half-exasperated and half-curious.

Yami grinned.

"I never said that I _wasn't _a part of the problem."

* * *

**22.  
**

* * *

Mokuba took a much-needed shower once he reached Yugi Mutou's home.

Of course, he had nothing into which to change. Thankfully he and Yugi were nearly the same size (Yugi was extremely embarrassed to admit this), and so he wore the top-ranked duelist's bathrobe and gave Tristan back his coat.

"...Sorry," the boy said sheepishly, with a faint blush.

Tristan shrugged. "No big deal."

They didn't remember that it was _entirely _too early in the morning until Natsumi Mutou shuffled into the front room, puffy-eyed and dressed in baggy pajamas. She opened her mouth, clearly to reprimand the four of them, until she saw that there was a fifth.

Mokuba, who had never met Yugi's mother before, stared at her.

Natsumi stared back.

She screamed.

Sugoroku Mutou came rushing into the room holding a broom in his hands like a firearm. His eyes were wild, his chest heaving, and Yugi was entirely too nervous (and shocked) to figure out anything to say.

Sugoroku, whom Mokuba had met on a number of occasions, was just as surprised (although not as vocal) to see the young Kaiba as his daughter. He collected himself. Natsumi still looked ready to hyperventilate.

He said, "...Mokuba...you...I thought..._how...?"_

Okay, so _collected _was not the right word.

It was at this moment that Tristan, Téa, Joey, Yugi, and even Yami, realized just how quickly their young friend's mind could work. Considering all that he had had to absorb in the scant few hours of his new life, he should have been in shock. But Mokuba said, as smoothly as if he were a professional actor, "So I guess it worked, huh?"

"It w—_what _worked?"

Mokuba smiled. "Niisama's been worried lately. Someone's been trying to find me, we think trying to kill me." He said this as if it were the most normal occurrence in the world. "So Niisama thought, to make sure he could have enough time to find this guy, we'd make him think someone else got to me first."

Yugi blinked owlishly and, inside his mind, Yami was laughing.

"O-Oh..." Natsumi said, putting a hand to her heart. "Oh, dear God, I thought...I...I don't know _what _I thought. But...that's _horrible._ That someone would...would want to..."

"Where have you been all this time, then?" Sugoroku asked.

The tension in the room had evaporated.

"Niisama sent me and a few guards to his summer home to hide out for a while. I lived in the basement." He gave a little giggle. "I felt like a spy. It was pretty fun, actually. But we think somebody found out about me, so we figured it'd be safer to come back home. If the news is gonna break anyway, I might as well be here, where Niisama can look out for me."

"And...and did you...did _anyone..._know about this?" Natsumi asked.

"Only Niisama," Mokuba said. "He said to keep it a secret to everyone else, so nobody would be able to ruin the plan." He looked at Yugi. "I...guess you guys were...kind of...well, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...I didn't want..."

He had no idea what to say.

"It's okay," Yugi said. "As long as _you're_ okay."

"I understand why you had to keep it quiet," Natsumi said, "but Yugi was...pretty messed up for a while." Yugi blushed on cue, and snapped at his mother not to say anything else. "You must have made quite an impression on him, Mokuba. I'm sorry I haven't been able to meet you before now. You should come by more often."

Mokuba smiled. "Thank you, Missus Mutou. I will."

"Oughtta get the whole gang together," Joey said, "have us a weekend o' good old fashioned partyin'! I'll bring the keg." This was a joke, and everyone knew it. Joey Wheeler drinking alcohol was about as likely as Kaiba taking up square-dancing.

"You're home rather late," Sugoroku said. "I would suggest that you stay the night here, but I'm sure you want to see your brother. He's probably still awake, anyway."

Mokuba laughed. "Yeah, probably."

"Do you want to give him a call?" Natsumi asked, gesturing to the telephone.

Mokuba shook his head. "No. If he _is _sleeping, I don't want to wake him up."

"My car is across the street," Téa said, smiling. "I can take you home, Mokuba."

"Let's go!" Joey said, grinning. "Ain't never seen Kaiba's place."

Mokuba nodded. "Okay. Thanks, you guys. Sorry we woke you up, Missus Mutou. Sugoroku-san." He bowed. Sugoroku waved dismissively, muttering that if _some _people didn't have such loud _screaming voices, _he would still be asleep. Natsumi smiled.

"I'll be home soon, Mom, Grandpa," Yugi said, waving. "I've got my key, and my phone. I'll call if something happens."

"Okay," Natsumi said. "It's good to see you're all right, Mokuba. I hope your brother figures this whole mess out soon. Take care of yourself."

"Thank you," Mokuba said, and bowed again as he turned and began to descend the staircase. The others followed him, and before long, Natsumi and her father heard Téa's car heading off toward the Kaiba Estate.

Natsumi blinked.

"Dad...was Mokuba wearing Yugi's robe?"

* * *

**23.  
**

* * *

"_State your business."_

Mokuba started to speak, but Yami (once again in control) patted his shoulder and said, "I've been wanting to try something. May I?"

Mokuba frowned, but nodded.

Yami closed his eyes, cleared his throat. "Just open the damned gate," he growled, in a perfect mimicry of his rival's voice, low and bored and bereft of any honest feeling. Mokuba blinked, surprised.

_"...Master Kaiba! I wasn't...I didn't know you'd gone out, sir!"_

"Whatever," Yami said, in Kaiba's voice. "Let me in."

The front gates of the Kaiba Estate opened quickly. Obviously, even though Kaiba wasn't _ever_ angry anymore, just the barest hint of irritation was enough to frighten people into obeying him. Yami was sure that Mokuba would tell his brother about this, and that Kaiba would strengthen his own security after this incident.

The man to whom he'd spoken would undoubtedly be fired.

Téa drove onto Kaiba's property looking inexplicably nervous, and Yami looked as smug and satisfied as a cat with mouse blood on its whiskers. Mokuba was still staring at him, wondering if there was anything this strange person _couldn't _do, but when Téa parked and they all began filing out of the car, his attention was wrested away and he all but sprinted up to the front porch.

Yami was the only one to have caught up to him by the time he started knocking on the doors. The look on his face reminded the gambler of a crazed addict begging for a visit with his dealer. Hm. Amusing. He wondered just how much Mokuba remembered about his own death; had he felt anything? Had he seen, smelled, _heard _anything?

Were the repercussions of Yami's ritual more widespread than he knew?

He wondered.

He knew, however, that right now there was nothing Mokuba wanted more than to see his brother again. It hadn't even been two weeks since it had happened, but Mokuba knew Kaiba better than most anyone. He knew what two weeks without hope, without purpose, would have done to him.

It was no surprise that the door was answered by two people, not one. A maid, still in uniform but with fatigue written across her young face, stood next to a suited man who wouldn't have looked out of place in a government building. One of Kaiba's personal guards, Yami was sure.

The maid didn't scream, like Natsumi Mutou.

The maid made no sound at all.

She stood there, tired and confused, and glared at them.

"The story has been told once already," Yami said, crossing his arms, with an air of impatience. "Plans have changed. The funeral didn't cover him as well as it should have. He's been found out, and it's been decided that he would be safer at home. May we enter, please?"

The maid blinked heavily, glanced at the guard, and frowned. "I'm sorry, but without an appointment, I can't allow you inside." She looked at Mokuba, and her frown deepened. "And even if you _had _an appointment, I _wouldn't _allow you inside. Take your sick jokes somewhere else. My master has been through enough."

She made to shut the door.

She was better than the man guarding the front gates.

Mokuba stopped her. "Akiko," he said.

Akiko stopped. Her eyes widened slightly. Her frown remained.

"Impressive. You know my name. You even _sound _like him. But you should go home. I don't know why they've put you up to this, or why you _agreed_, but—"

"When Niisama hired you, he wanted to test you," the boy said quickly, desperately. "He told you that you weren't allowed to clean my room for me, no matter what. He told me to try to convince you. To...um..." Mokuba thought for a moment. "He told me to...act as pitiful as a kicked puppy. And he said if that didn't work, I should try to charm you. And if _that _didn't work, order you to do it. I tried everything. I even pretended to throw up. You said you'd call a doctor, but _Niisama _was your boss, not me, and if _this _was how I was going to treat you, you were disappointed in me. You expected better, and you were sure Niisama did, too."

About halfway through the story, Akiko's frown dropped from her face.

By the time Mokuba finished, her eyes had grown to the size of dinner plates.

The guard looked slightly pale. He whispered, "God..."

"Niisama sent me to the other house," Mokuba said. "Whoever wanted me, he was getting too close. So Niisama thought he'd try to trick everybody into thinking I was dead, so he'd be able to concentrate on finding him without worrying about me. But it's not gonna work. Somebody found me. I don't _think_ anybody knows I'm home yet, but..."

He trailed off, looking anxious.

Like he was worried about messing up his big brother's plan. In other words, perfectly natural. Yami very nearly applauded. It was clear now that Akiko believed him. It was a pretty good cover, actually. Sounded perfectly plausible. And coming straight from Mokuba's mouth certainly added to its validity.

The maid stood there for a while longer, still staring. Woodenly, she stepped aside and opened the door to let them all inside. Once the five of them filed in, she shut it. All the while she stared.

Mokuba looked sheepishly away. "I...I'm sorry, Akiko. I wanted to tell _you, _at least, but...but Niisama said. And...and I didn't...well, I couldn't...I was _scared_, and..."

Oh, well played.

Yami had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing.

Akiko didn't answer for a long, too long, moment.

Then she all but collapsed onto him, hugging the young Kaiba as if he were her own lost son. _"Bocchan!"_ she cried, tears choking her voice. "Oh, God! You're okay! Thank God, you're _alive!"_

Mokuba hugged her back, smiling from ear to ear.

Yami glanced back at the others and smirked.

He could see it in their eyes. The sacrifice had been worth it.

More than worth it.

Nobody noticed Yami leave until he'd been gone for a full minute.

* * *

**24.  
**

* * *

"Good morning, Kaiba. Up late, I see."

He turned his head. Yugi stood, leaning against the wall, as casually as if he belonged there. He was shuffling a deck of playing cards. Part of Seto wondered why, and indeed _how, _he was here. Most of him didn't care.

"...You," he said.

"Any luck playing detective?" his rival asked, strolling up to the wall and looking around at the information scattered across it. "Looks like you've been busy. I hope you've found a lead." He turned to look at Seto with an amused glint in his eyes. Seto knew it was a lie. Yugi didn't care if he found the son of a bitch any more than _he _did.

Not _this _Yugi.

"Why are you here?"

"Is that any way to speak to a friend?" he asked, manufacturing an expression of offense. Seto didn't justify this question with a response. Yugi grinned. "Honestly, I've come to celebrate. You didn't think I wouldn't manage to figure out your birthday, did you? Child's play. You're not as mysterious as you would like. I assure you."

"...Get out."

"Now, now, at least _act _grateful. I've brought you a gift!"

"I don't want gifts. I want _silence. _Get out."

"Now, _that _sounds like the Kaiba I know! Good man." Yugi was positively gleeful. Effervescence exuded from him to the point that he almost looked like the _other _Yugi, and it crossed Seto's mind that he was being mocked. "However, dear friend, I'm afraid I'll have to disagree with you. I think you'll want _this _gift. I think you'll want it very much. Your servant...Yoshimi, is it? _She _likes it. Come with me, come with me. You'll love it. Would I lie to you?"

"Yes."

Yugi laughed.

* * *

**25.  
**

* * *

"Where'd Yugi go?" Mokuba asked.

Everyone, including the guard, looked surprised and started scanning the room as if expecting to find him hiding under the couch. It was Joey who finally said, "Prob'ly went off to find Kaiba."

"Is Niisama still awake?"

Akiko nodded. "I think so." She looked embarrassed. "I...I don't know how he...Seto-sama is an _amazing_ actor! I thought...I mean, he...the _speech_ he gave at your funeral, and...and the way he's been acting lately, it...it's all...I just can't believe it."

Mokuba tried to smile, as if proud of his brother's ability, but it didn't quite work. It looked more like a spasm of physical pain. He turned away. "I'm gonna see him," he said quickly. "I don't think he knows I'm back in the city yet. Probably, but he might not. Uh...Niisama hasn't been sleeping in his room, has he?"

Akiko smiled. Mokuba knew his brother well, all right. "No, Bocchan."

"I, um...might be sleeping there tonight. Could you clean up a bit, please?"

"Seto-sama's bedchamber is spotless," Akiko answered, glowing. "I saw to it this afternoon."

Mokuba grinned. "Thanks."

"Of course. Good night, Bocchan. I'll see you in the morning?"

Mokuba's eyes sparkled. "I'm not going anywhere for a while."

Akiko responded with a giggle fit for a schoolgirl.

With that, socializing was over. Mokuba left the room, and gave a distracted answer when Akiko called after him, telling him that Seto-sama had taken up residence in one of the spare bedrooms on the third floor, sixth door to the left of the stairs.

Téa and Tristan started to follow. Joey stopped them.

"Hold up," he said. "I'm thinkin' we oughtta leave 'em alone for now. I'd tell Yami to back off, too, but _he_ ain't listenin' to anybody, so there's no use." There was no mistaking the command in his usually casual voice.

"Pardon me for sounding rude, but...who _are _you?"

Akiko was watching them intently, looking halfway between wanting to welcome them with honors (they'd brought her young master home) and wanting to throw them out (her young master was a target for assassination, and they were strangers).

She'd seemed positively giddy when speaking to Mokuba, but now she looked just as stern as the guard standing next to her. Joey cleared his throat, ran a hand through his hair, and reached into his back pocket. "Uh...for all I know, that guy works for the FBI or somethin', so I'll, uh..." He pulled out his wallet and showed her his ID. "Joey Wheeler."

"Oh!" Akiko said, and her entire demeanor changed back. She grinned. "You're Bocchan's friends from Duelist Kingdom! I'm so sorry, I should have recognized you!" She bowed hurriedly, and elbowed the guard in the stomach. "Don't be rude, these are honored guests!"

"Master Kaiba has mentioned them, but they are hardly what I would call _honored—"_

"Sit down, sit down! Please! I'll make some tea. Make yourselves at home, do you have any requests? Don't mind him, he's just cranky." She started pulling them over to the couch. "Here, sit here, I'll be back in a minute. Trent, shouldn't we call Mister Ackerman? Does he know Bocchan is home?"

The guard frowned thoughtfully. "...I don't know, ma'am. I'll check."

Trent left through one doorway, Akiko through another, leaving the three of them alone. Joey, looking dazed and thoroughly confused, said, "...She scares me."

"I like her," Téa said.

"What's 'Bocchan' mean?" Tristan wondered.

"I don't like tea."

_"It means, 'young master!'" _came Akiko's voice from another room. _"We also have soda if you like, maybe juice? Water, milk?"_

Joey blinked. Tristan raised an eyebrow.

They looked at each other.

"She's good."

* * *

**26.  
**

* * *

He remembered.

He'd been walking home, which may not have been notable to any other ten-year-old boy, but for him it had been a clandestine adventure. It made him feel giddy with that kind of excitement that only came from doing something dangerous, something stupid, something _not allowed, _and it had boiled up in his body like a volcano and caused a grin fit to embarrass the Cheshire Cat to split his face. Every so often he would just giggle, for no reason other than the fact that he was _doing _it.

He would learn later on why Niisama always told him to wait for the car.

That was perhaps the only positive thing that had come out of it all: it proved that Niisama was right. Niisama was always right. The car itself offered protection from _others_, but perhaps more important than that was that when he was _in _the car, he was also under the supervision and protection of one of Niisama's employees. Hand-picked and dedicated and further motivated by an almost obscene amount of money to do the job _right, _they could be trusted to guard him. If Niisama couldn't protect him personally, at least he knew these people, these chosen few, not only could but _would _do it in his stead.

Niisama trusted them. And so, he trusted them, too.

But _that day, _the urge to disobey, the urge to strike out for the territories without backup, the urge to have an adventure, overtook him. And he didn't wait for the car. He didn't follow his brother's rule.

And he paid for it.

He'd walked about a block-and-a-half when _it _happened.

He was an observant boy. Niisama had trained him, and experience had trained him. He'd learned a lot from Pegasus Crawford and his island. He knew how to keep watch for threats. But this one...this threat was too much for him.

If only Niisama had known.

If only Niisama had been there.

But no. No, that wasn't fair. If Niisama had been there, then he would have sacrificed himself. That wasn't right. If he was glad for anything, it was that it had been him, and _not_ Niisama. Poor Niisama, who already did so much for him, and who would have immediately—almost happily—given up everything, without a single thought to the contrary.

The first bullet took out his right kneecap, and even as he stumbled forward flat onto his face, for a moment he wasn't sure what had happened. What was this? What was that sound?

It felt like the second shot tore him clean in half.

What...why — the _pain. _It hurt. It hurt _bad._

_Crack! _Three. _Crack! _Four.

Blood filled his mouth, pooled out beneath him like the red carpet Father liked so much. The red carpet that Niisama replaced. He stared, gasping and choking, at the carpet. Was he back...back home? Back _then? _Why...why did it hurt?

Why couldn't he...move?

_Crack._ Five.

O-Ow...ow, ow, ow! Something...something wrong...

Carpet. Blood.

He tasted...pennies.

_ Crack._ Six.

Ow.

Owie...owie.

Look, Nii'tama. Owie, right here.

Make better, Nii'tama.

Please?

P-Pretty...please...?

"Forgive me."

Wh...who...? What...?

Crack.

* * *

**27.  
**

* * *

At 3:08 PM, on the thirteenth day of October, in the year 2006, Mokuba Yagami Kaiba died.

At 3:08 AM, on the twenty-fifth day of October, in the year 2006, he came back home.

* * *

**28.  
**

* * *

"Why...are you...here."

Yugi waved off the question yet again, chuckling as if he could not _possibly _be happier, and Seto was surprised to note that through the haze and fog of depression, despite the cold emptiness in his heart and his mind, he was growing angry.

"Would you believe that I was simply curious as to the _interior _of your home?" the gambler asked liltingly. "After all, I have never been allowed. I do hope you understand that to be somewhat rude. I have invited you into _my _home."

"...You don't _have _a home."

"Very well. _Yugi _has invited you into _his _home."

"I declined."

"But you _do _enjoy arguing semantics! Honestly, Kaiba, it's no wonder you're an introvert."

Seto didn't answer, but he did continue to follow Yugi down the hallway, though he didn't know why. He stopped when Yugi stopped, and he stared, waiting for his rival to say something else. Something relevant. Something worth saying.

Instead, he returned to his deck of cards.

Shuffling them quickly, with the deftness of a veteran casino dealer, his hands blurred for a full minute before he stopped, fanned them out—facing Seto—and said, "Pick a card, Kaiba."

"No."

Yugi grinned. "Indulge me, would you?"

Seto sighed and decided it wasn't worth arguing. He took a card.

The Ace of Spades.

"Back in the deck, if you would, please?"

He slipped it back.

"Here," Yugi said, handing the deck to Seto. "You shuffle."

"What?"

"Be thorough, now."

So, Seto shuffled the deck. He didn't know what this gleeful madman was hoping to prove, here, and he wasn't all that curious to find out. But it was easier to placate the man than to argue the point, and he didn't honestly care either way.

He handed the deck back to Yugi.

Yugi tapped the deck once with the index finger of his free hand, drew the top card, and showed it to Seto. "Was this your card?"

The Eight of Hearts.

"No."

Yugi revealed the Ace of Spades hiding behind the first card.

He laughed. "Close enough."

Footsteps came rushing down the hall, and someone rounded the corner.

Yugi stepped aside. "I told you I had a birthday gift for you, didn't I?"

Time stopped.

Sheer impossibility had taken physical form, and stood there, breathing harshly, grey-violet eyes wide and wet and staring. The air stood stock still, held him locked in place. Yugi Mutou no longer existed. Words had no meaning, thoughts had no function, the very earth ceased to become anything but the vaguest of shadows.

There was only..._Him._

Seto Sasaki-Yagami Kaiba let out the first honest scream of his life.

* * *

**29.  
**

* * *

_**I'm sure that right now, the only thing you're interested in doing is hugging your brother and never letting go.**__** But you'll have to wait just a bit longer, Little Kaiba, if you want him to keep hold on what remains of his sanity.**_

Mokuba jumped and stared openly at Yugi, who wasn't looking at him. Nonetheless, the boy was _sure _that Yugi had spoken. It certainly hadn't been his brother, who was clearly too horrified to make a sound.

Mokuba had known, and looked up to, his big brother for his entire life. And in all those years, he couldn't think of a single time he'd ever seen Seto looking so scared. The young executive's normally pale face was positively gaunt, his bright cobalt eyes wide and glassy, mouth open as he gasped in breath.

"W-What the..._hell _are you...!" Seto managed to gasp out, scrambling for his feet and slapping his right hand against his hip, where he normally kept a semi-automatic pistol. It wasn't there now, but Seto continued to grasp for it.

His brother's terror began to affect Mokuba. His chest constricted, and he bit his lower lip. He looked to Yugi for help. He didn't know what to do. Niisama didn't _get _scared. Not like this.

"You're being foolish, Kaiba," Yugi said. "Is that any way to greet your brother? It's not a trick, you know. It's not a joke, and I can assure you, it's not a dream, either. Simply a...means to an end, shall we call it?"

"Get away from me," Seto commanded, breathless and with no real conviction. "Get the hell out of my home. I swear by all that's holy if you come near me again, I'll kill you with my own hands. _Get away from me!"_

Mokuba opened his mouth.

_**Don't speak just yet, little one.**_

He jumped again.

"This may seem hypocritical coming from me, especially in these circumstances, but think rationally, Kaiba," Yugi said. "What possible gain could there be in such a joke? Why would I do that to you? I don't want you driven insane any more than I want you dead. Life would be entirely too boring if that happened. Look, Kaiba. Look at him. You know he's your brother." Yugi put a hand on Mokuba's shoulder. "Your precious little brother. Your _raison d'être. _I've brought him back to you. This is no trick, Kaiba."

"H...H...?"

"How did I defeat Pegasus Crawford? How did I defeat you? How do I even _exist? _Not everything can be explained by pure logic and science, my atheistic friend. I will be honest with you, because telling you to just accept it...well. It was a ritual. An ancient, powerful, _painful _ritual. I will only tell you that it is permanent, and that it is complete. There will be no repercussions at all for dear little Mokuba. He's just fine." Yugi looked over at the boy, raised an eyebrow. "...Well. Perhaps there will be _emotional _repercussions. But I'm sure you will be able to help him with that. Isn't that right...Niisama?"

The raw panic had left Seto's face. His eyes were narrow now, his mouth a thin line. He had gathered himself, and he very nearly looked like himself. To anyone else, he would have looked perfectly normal.

Mokuba wasn't anyone else.

"...This can't be real," Seto said. His voice was _almost _composed.

"It's too...good to be true." Yugi said, and sauntered forward. Seto stepped away. "That's it, right? This is impossible because it's _good _fortune, and since when have you ever been blessed with such a mythical thing?"

"It's impossible because it's _impossible, _Mutou. Get away from me."

Yugi began to chuckle. It sounded...evil. Not at all like him.

Mokuba began to shiver.

"Is _this _how it ends?" Yugi asked, slipping his hands into his pockets and staring up at the ceiling. "Is he to be reborn, only to be rejected by the one who loves him most? Will Kaiba's greatest desire, once given, only drive him insane?" The chuckle evolved into a full-on laugh. "The gods _are _sadistic, aren't they?"

Seto scowled. His fists were clenched. Bereft of his favored weapon, he was preparing to use another. If Yugi didn't leave soon, and Mokuba with him, Seto would throw them out himself.

But Yugi looked prepared for that.

His grin was merciless.

He said, "...Riddle me this, Seto-chan...even if this _is _a dream, and even if you _do _wake up and find him gone again...isn't it worth it? Even if it breaks your spirit and drives you into the dirt afterward...isn't _this _what you want? Isn't _this_ what you've been begging for?"

Seto's eyes widened again. His mouth opened the slightest bit.

"Just one more chance...to give your baby brother a hug?"

* * *

**30.  
**

* * *

The trap was set. Now it all came down to waiting.

Yami stepped back against the wall, crossed his arms, and watched.

Kaiba half-fell, half-crawled to his knees. His eyes were finally locked on his brother's. Kaiba finally saw Mokuba for what he was. His hands began to shake, as did his lower lip. He tried to speak. Mokuba, responding to his brother's obvious discomfort, looked ready to cry.

"M-Mokuba...it...it _is _you...i-isn't it...?"

The boy forced a smile onto his face. "It's...it's me, Niisama."

"I...I'm...Mokuba, I...I'm so...sor—"

_"Don't,"_ Mokuba cut in desperately, and the first tears fell from his eyes. "Don't...don't say it. You didn't...you don't...it wasn't..."

Now _Kaiba_ looked ready to cry.

Yami rubbed his chin, thoughtfully.

_So he _does_ remember how it happened..._

"I should have...I should have been there! I should have done something! Damn it, Mokuba, I should have _protected_ you!"

"No, Niisama. I should have listened to you. It's _my_ fault. I wanted to...I wanted to..."

Panic welled in Kaiba's face again. "No! No no no no _don't!_ You...you don't...you shouldn't...! _I...!"_

Mokuba's arms kept lifting and falling, lifting and falling, as if he were wrestling with himself, wanting to embrace his brother but unable to do it for some reason. As if he didn't think he should be _allowed _to do it. His breath was hitching, tears running freely from his wide, terrified eyes.

As if finally realizing what his brother was trying to do, Kaiba lunged forward and pulled his tiny sibling into a bone-crushing hug, and that was all it took for both of them to break. There were no more words, no more apologies. There were no more questions, no more doubt. There was still fear—oh, yes, there was fear—but it had been pushed aside. Heaved aside.

Yami's work was done.

He sighed, rolled his shoulders, and walked away.

Neither Kaiba took any notice of him.

* * *

**31.  
**

* * *

Yami came stalking into the front room looking disgusted. Joey shot to his feet, Tristan and Téa following suit. "So?" Joey asked. "What's up?"

"He sees the truth!" the spirit cried out sarcastically. "All is well in the land of the Kaibas. _Masal tov. _I'm leaving." Hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, he headed for the front doors. Akiko watched him apprehensively, holding a tray with hot tea and tiny butter cookies, as he kicked them open.

"Well, Jesus, Yami, don't sound so fucking _happy_ about it! It was only _your_ damned idea!" Tristan snapped.

"It'll be at least a month before Kaiba's even halfway interesting again."

"Pardon me, Master Mutou," Akiko said, lifting her tray. "Won't you have a light snack before you leave? Think of it as a token of my gratitude, for seeing my young master home safely." Her tone was as sugary as the cookies she presented, but her eyes were rimmed with ice.

Yami raised an eyebrow. There was no reading _his_ expression, but it almost seemed as though this offer offended him. He said, tentatively as if unsure what to make of her, "...I appreciate that, but I am afraid I must decline."

Akiko did not remove her gaze from the gambler's eyes. Although it was clear she was uncomfortable in Yami's presence, she showed no intention of shying away from him. Yami seemed confused, but intrigued, by this. His stance, tense and aggravated before, loosened. His old, swaggering nonchalance was back.

The tray was set down in front of the other three, all sitting on Kaiba's couch. Joey grabbed a cookie, tossed it into his mouth, and began to chew mechanically, just for something to do. Tristan followed suit with a mug of tea, draining half in one long, drawn-out swallow.

"Where did you find him?" Akiko asked. "Bocchan said that he didn't think Seto-sama knew about his return. So he didn't send you, specifically, did he? Was there...oh, I hope there weren't any complications? None of you were put in danger, were you?"

It was clear to all of them that Akiko probably didn't much care if _they _were in danger. She was only interested in Mokuba. Yami smirked knowingly, and shrugged his shoulders. "Not particularly, Yoshimi-dono." The honorific had a distinctly sarcastic tinge to it. "My grandfather very nearly accosted your young master with a broom, but of course your young master was supposedly dead. And it _is _rather late...or early, if you prefer."

"You invited Bocchan into your home, so late and on such short notice? Allow me...to thank you, Master Mutou." Clearly suspicious, she didn't sound all that sincere. "He must have been frightened. I'm sure he's relieved to be home. Bocchan always feels safest when Seto-sama is nearby."

The more she talked, the more and more engaged Yami became. He said, almost happily, "Your young master is admirably brave, considering his current situation. I must...tip my hat to him." He mimed the gesture.

"Yes, he is," she agreed, sounding as proud as any doting mother. She couldn't have been much older than Yami himself, certainly didn't _look _any older than her nineteen-year-old employer, but it was easy to assume that she had been working here for a decent amount of time, and was probably the closest thing to a mom the poor kid had ever had.

Téa thought of Yuki Yagami's grave marker, and felt tears burn her eyes again.

"Is something the matter, Miss Gardner?" Akiko suddenly asked, and Téa flinched violently. "Would you like something else? We have plenty of snacks around here. Bocchan has quite the sweet tooth, when Seto-sama permits him to use it." She smiled, her eyes twinkling.

"I always figured rich kids could eat whatever they wanted," Joey murmured thoughtfully. "Ice cream for breakfast, three-layer cake for lunch, you know. I mean, hell, stuff like that can't be all that expensive to _Kaiba_, right?"

Akiko's smile widened. "Of course, Seto-sama could _afford_ to feed Bocchan all the dessert he could ever ask for. But he is actually quite diligent about Bocchan's diet. He keeps very specific instructions for Connolly—that's our chef. Oh. Oh, I hope Lionel remembered about the—I guess it doesn't matter. But...still...Seto-sama _did _warn him...I, oh. I'm so sorry. Listen to me. Anyway, I assure you, Bocchan only gets ice cream and cake when Seto-sama gives the okay."

"...Huh."

"Seto-sama takes his responsibility as Bocchan's guardian very seriously."

"Perhaps a bit _too _seriously...?" Yami murmured, almost too low to hear. Akiko barely, just barely, flinched. She glanced back at the gambler, and a penetrating gleam not unlike Kaiba's visited her bright brown eyes. "I mean no offense, of course," he added, half-smirking at her. "Kaiba is...quite the devoted parent, of course, and that _is_ most admirable."

"But...?" Joey prodded, after a moment of silence.

Yami blinked. "But what?"

"Uh-huh. Sure." Joey frowned. "There's something _off _about you sometimes, man."

"Oh. Thank you."

The blond stared for a moment, then shook his head. "Whatever. C'mon, you guys. We overstayed our welcome, I'm thinkin'. We weren't invited, an' if Kaiba realizes we're _all _here, I'm pretty sure he's gonna call the cops."

The others quickly nodded. None of them wanted to see what would happen if Yami goaded Akiko any further. Clearly, insulting her master was just as sore a spot for her as it was for Mokuba, and they all figured that it wouldn't be pretty if this woman lost her composure.

After all, she worked for Seto freaking Kaiba.

"Don't worry about that," Akiko said, and her voice was perfectly friendly again. "I invited you in. If Seto-sama is going to be angry with anyone, it will be me. I can handle him." She winked. "It's one of the benefits of being his favorite."

"His...favorite?" Tristan asked blankly. "He has a _favorite?"_

"Well, he's never reprimanded me. From Seto-sama, that's a high compliment." She strolled over to the open doors, eyeing Yami suspiciously, and nodded as the group began to leave. "Besides, I have a secret weapon: Bocchan likes me."

"Hell of a secret weapon," Joey mumbled. "Shame it don't work for _us."_

Akiko's eyes sparkled. "Don't be so sure. Bocchan thinks very highly of you all and, whether you've seen it or not, that _has _had an effect on Seto-sama, if the amount of time and effort he puts into complaining about you is any indication."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "That's supposed to be a _good _thing?"

"If he didn't like you, or at least find you interesting, he wouldn't waste the effort." She winked. "He may not show it, but trust me. He likes you, in his own way. Be patient with him if you can. His only positive example of social behavior is Bocchan. He doesn't know _how _to be friendly."

They all frowned.

"I don't know about _that..." _Yami said thoughtfully. "Kaiba has always seemed friendly enough to _me. _Unorthodox, perhaps, but...sociable in his own right."

Akiko gave a tiny little cough. "I do hope you will pardon me, Master Mutou, but you are, well, something of a special case. If I may venture to guess, I think perhaps Seto-sama finds you...familiar."

There wasn't an iota of a chance of mistaking, from the way she was looking at the gambler, that Akiko did _not_ consider this to be a good thing. If Yami caught this — and he surely did — he either ignored it, or took pleasure in it.

"Really?" he asked. "Of whom do you think I remind him, Yoshimi-dono? Surely not your sweet, whole-heartedly devoted little Bocchan. The Big Five, perhaps?" He gave a toothy grin, and Akiko scowled. "Pegasus Crawford?"

Yami's bright eyes narrowed, and his grin widened.

"His...most esteemed father...?"

Akiko flinched.

"Certainly something to think about," Yami said suddenly, and his voice was light again. Almost friendly. He stepped away, and no longer looked like a natural predator. "Thank you, Yoshimi-dono. This conversation has been...most enlightening." He glanced at the others. "Shall we go? Joey is right, I think. I'm sure we are keeping this lovely young woman from her...beauty sleep. It's quite late."

"How chivalrous of you," Akiko murmured.

Yami bowed low. "I bid you goodnight, and farewell. Give your dear masters my best."

And he left.

Joey was next to head for the door, after a beat of silence. He looked at Akiko and grimaced. "Don't mind him. He's, uh...in a weird mood."

"I've heard from Seto-sama about Master Mutou's...condition," Akiko said, smiling again. "I understand that he is, essentially, two people sharing one body." She smiled self-consciously. "I have met Bocchan's friend a few times. This is the first time I've come face-to-face with Seto-sama's rival. He's quite...unique."

"...Yeah. Got _that _right."

Téa looked extremely conflicted as she followed her friends out of the Kaiba home.

Akiko shut the doors behind them, and let out a tired sigh.

She barely made it back to the couch before sleep claimed her.

* * *

**32.  
**

* * *

Seto was almost comatose.

He wasn't talking, he wasn't really even moving. He seemed content to sit, legs half-bent underneath him, back against the wall because he didn't have the strength to hold himself up. Mokuba said nothing, simply lay next to him, leaning against his side. Seto had an arm around his brother's shoulders, and they sat that way for at least ten minutes before the silence was finally broken.

Seto finally managed to form a complete sentence.

Sort of.

"...You died."

He said it in a breathless, tiny voice, as if trying to gather together the last of his defenses against insanity and barely mustering that single, (what he'd thought to be) undeniable fact. Mokuba looked up at his brother's face and saw the cobalt eyes he'd known for so many years were still haunted, still frightened, still...untrusting.

"Yeah," Mokuba said softly. He was tired. His brain wasn't working very well. He didn't want to think about dying, or anything. He wanted..._this. _Sitting here, in his own home, with his Niisama beside him. But he said, for Seto's sake, "I remember...I remember everything."

Seto's grip on the boy tightened, and Mokuba huddled close.

Thinking about it made him feel cold.

"...Did you see his face...?"

Mokuba shuddered.

His brother's voice sounded dangerous. Mechanical, distant, but deadly.

"He was...it was...dark. I couldn't...I..."

And something clicked.

Seto's hold on him seemed to soften, and when he spoke, it was with a tone Mokuba hadn't heard in years. He said, "Okay, Mokuba. Okay. It's all right. Don't worry about it. Everything will be fixed soon. I promise. Just...leave it to me."

Mokuba didn't think he'd ever heard anything quite so beautiful in his life.

He let out a soft, relieved sigh.

Seto rubbed his shoulder. "I'll need you to tell me what you remember," he said. "Eventually. But not now. Certainly not tonight. Not until you're ready." Mokuba nodded silently. He'd expected this. "Are you...are you tired?" Seto asked, unsure of himself. "This...this ritual Yugi mentioned...did it...are you...? Did you...? _Damn it!"_ He hissed this last at himself.

"I _am _kinda tired..." Mokuba said, placating.

Seto sighed, nodded. "So am I. Come on, kiddo. Let's get out of the hall, then. Can you...walk? Do you feel all right? Sick, sore? Your hair is wet. Did you take a shower before you came here?"

"Yes, Niisama. At Yugi's. I'm fine. Just tired. I can walk."

"Must be where that bathrobe came from. I'll have it washed and sent back to him in the morning. Go on to your room and get changed."

"Is my...is my stuff still there?"

"Yes, yes, of course. I...didn't see much of a point in clearing out your room. I...didn't plan on staying here all that much longer." Seto cleared his throat and stood up, turning away and refusing to look at Mokuba's suddenly worried, sad expression.

"Niisama..."

"It's fine. That's over now. Don't worry about it. G-Go on and change, little brother."

Mokuba stood up, a hand on Seto's arm, and stared at the back of his brother's head as he no doubt struggled to keep his emotions in check. On impulse, Mokuba gave him a quick, but tight, hug before heading off to his room.

He didn't see the surprised smile that spread across Seto's face.

Or the light that returned to his eyes.

Yami had succeeded.

With one scheme, he had brought both Kaiba brothers back to life.

* * *

**END.  
**

* * *

_**As mentioned in the previous section, this version of Twist's premise is darker in nature, and I daresay more mature. Even when things go right, there's a sprinkling of wrong. It's the nature of the game. Death is never easy, and resurrection comes with its own baggage. But then, I think Yami knew that, don't you? In fact, I think he counted on it. Wouldn't be any fun if not for that, now, would it?**_

**_Until next time, all. Hope you enjoyed the show._**


	4. Backlash

_**"Twist of Fate" focused almost entirely on Seto's grief over the loss of Mokuba, and his slow, plodding recovery. A distinct point of interest toward the end of the story was the idea that full recovery, indeed even partial recovery, from that loss is impossible for him. I had this idea in my head when I first started writing it, and so it didn't take me long to decide that I couldn't let it stay that way. I had to figure out a way for Mokuba to come back. Since I was...oh, about 14 or so when Twist was written, the best I could come up with was, "It's a dream!"**_

_**The thing about dreams is that they're easily, and quickly, forgotten. Any psychological ramifications from Mokuba's death would be pushed under the rug. Seto wouldn't have to deal with them for long, and would easily be able to ignore them even if they popped up from time to time. This time around, though, it wasn't a dream. Seto attended his brother's funeral, delivered his brother's eulogy, watched his brother's coffin lowered into the ground. Yami may have "saved the day," as he is wont to do...but that doesn't change what happened to Seto's mind.**_

_**That is the focus on this section. Seto has proven himself to be quite adept at handling himself at all times with pride and determination.**_

_**Some times are...harder than others.**_

* * *

**PART FOUR:  
****Backlash**

* * *

**33.**

* * *

She woke in a raw panic.

Roland Ackerman was in the room when Akiko opened her eyes and all but sprang to her feet, pale and terrified. "What time is it?" she demanded. Roland made to smooth his thin mustache in a not-so-subtle way of hiding his sudden grin.

"Some minutes before noon," he said. The rising star of the Kaiba family staff— the "house favorite"—could not have looked more mortified if he had said that her grandmother had had a stroke and was in intensive care. Roland added, "Master Kaiba and Young Master Mokuba are both still sleeping, themselves. I doubt you have to worry." He frowned curiously. "...Did you know about this...scheme Master Kaiba set in motion, by the way?"

Akiko visibly calmed, though she couldn't hide all of the anxiety flooding her with adrenaline, and shook her head. "Not in the slightest, Mister Ackerman. I very nearly slammed the door in Bocchan's face. I thought it was...some kind of...prank..."

Roland raised an eyebrow. "I probably would have thought the same thing. If I were to venture a guess, Master Kaiba is going to be particularly distracted now that the young master is back home. I wonder if he will inform us of his plan to handle the public, once it leaks that the funeral was a hoax."

"Bocchan's popularity will soar once that information does come out," Akiko said with a grin. "Have you seen some of the tributes and videos and..._events _held in his honor since this happened? Think how relieved all those people will be."

"That would depend entirely on how the information is received. If Master Kaiba makes a preemptive strike, and the explanation is directly from him, I'd venture to agree with you. If the news leaks from some other source, I'm thinking they'll be outraged."

"You think so?"

"I do. He's already gotten plenty of bad press over his, ah...performance at the young master's funeral. I doubt he cares, but...well, anyway. I can see you're wanting to make up for lost time. I'll take my leave. Could you mention to Master Kaiba that I would like to speak with him, once he wakes?"

"Of course."

Roland smiled, nodded, and left.

Akiko quickly began sorting through her various duties, cursing herself for sleeping so accursedly late. She might have rationalized the behavior by telling herself that Yugi Mutou's visit to the mansion kept her awake until about five in the morning, and in light of that noon wasn't so bad. But she worked for the Kaiba family, and she had learned by her master's example that such thinking was needlessly weak and destructive, and she shuddered at the thought of going to Seto-sama with such an excuse.

The only reason panic hadn't quite set in was because of what Roland had said; as long as she had things relatively in order by the time Seto-sama woke up, the day was not lost.

She wasn't sure if it was unconscious or not that her work—largely habitual, and she wouldn't remember half if any of it by the next day—eventually led her to Seto-sama's bedchamber. It wasn't often that she needed to visit this room. The man who had inherited the Kaiba legacy was nothing if not organized, and his personal space was a perfect reflection of that. The previous day was the first time she had had to clean this particular room in some four months, and it had been the dirtiest she had ever seen it (any other single, teenage male would have considered it perfectly clean).

Bocchan had been true to his word; he had spent the night there. He lay huddled next to his elder brother, one arm draped lazily across Seto-sama's middle and using Seto-sama's shoulder as a pillow. A protective arm was wrapped around the young Kaiba; Seto-sama kept his other folded behind his head. Akiko knew that he kept a spare gun underneath his pillow, and for a long time she had wondered if this wasn't a bit...paranoid.

After the events of the past two weeks, she now understood.

Seto-sama trusted _no one _to watch his back (or his brother's) while he slept.

Bocchan looked contented, peaceful, reunited with his hero. Akiko couldn't help but grin. The boy wore forest green pajamas, the collar of his shirt was skewed, and one leg popped out from underneath the comforter, revealing one bare foot. He was smiling just slightly.

Seto-sama was in stark contrast to his heir, but of course this was no surprise. He lay flat on his back, his blue bedclothes almost looked straight enough to have been ironed (while he'd been wearing them), and his face was—while peaceful and free of worry compared to his usual glare—a statuesque picture of _nothingness. _

He looked like nothing so much as a bodyguard, even while unconscious.

Akiko wished she had a camera.

And at the same time, she was glad she didn't.

She shut the door softly behind her, and went back to work with the grin still on her face.

All was right with the world again.

* * *

**34.**

* * *

He woke in a haze.

He couldn't remember waking up so fundamentally tired in years. It brought him back to memories he had thought were buried forever; as he forced himself to rise, he half-expected Diamun, Gozaburo's most efficient henchman, to stalk into the room with his switch and his ridiculous glasses to inform Seto that his laziness would cost him.

But Diamun was not here.

Diamun had been fired years ago, and had died not long after that. The ancient demon had always seemed a _part _of the mansion, like he had materialized into existence during its construction, and without it, age had finally caught up with him.

Seto blinked, rubbed his eyes, and wondered just how far _gone_ he was, to be entertaining such idiotic fantasies. He swung his legs out from beneath the covers of his bed and stumbled to his feet, grimacing as a sharp, lancing pain arced its way through his head. He walked over to his closet, removed a suit, grabbed a pair of shoes, then made his way over to his dresser for socks and a tie. He had no conscious idea what he was picking out

It wasn't until he'd showered, shaved, combed through his hair, brushed his teeth and dressed, that he even remembered why he was bothering with this old routine in the first place. Why he cared the faintest bit what he looked like. Once the memory fully formed itself in his mind, he nearly ripped off the bathroom door as he threw himself back into his bedchamber.

Mokuba lay on one side of his brother's bed, a leg hanging over the edge, tangled in sheets and comforter to the point that it would take a pair of shears or a machete to extract him. Seto stared, breath coming in haggard little gasps as he forced his heart rate to slow down, and nearly fell to his knees with relief. He hung his head low, sounding for a moment like a drowning man.

His entire body was shaking.

He barely managed to keep from stumbling as he made his way over to the armchair in one corner of the room. Mokuba mumbled in his sleep, turned around so that Seto could see his face, half-obscured by his mass of ebony hair. An image flashed into Seto's mind: that same face, meticulously sculpted and presented for the grave; that same hair, washed clean and combed perfectly in preparation for an eternity in the unrelenting dampness of the earth.

Anyone else probably would have forced the macabre memory away; anyone else would have tried their level best to forget it.

Seto Kaiba...was not anyone else.

He held on, forced it forward in as clear a picture as his twisted, machine-like mind could create. It was painful; his stomach twisted in upon itself, his headache intensified, the air he pulled into his lungs was heavy and thick, and his eyes burned. But he forced himself to remember his brother's corpse just the same.

The minutes inched past, and silence settled around him like a smothering blanket.

Eventually, the utter lack of ambient sound in the room—which made every miniscule tick, swish, creak, scratch and sigh that _did _enter his ears echo in his head like a loudspeaker—threatened to drive him insane. He normally thrived on absolute quiet like this, normally kept his personal space absolutely free of anything that could possibly _offend _absolute quiet like this.

But...his life wasn't normal right now, and neither was his mind.

He reached over to the tiny remote that controlled the sound system set up throughout the room—Seto still wasn't sure why he'd installed it, but thought perhaps it was to spite the chamber's former occupant—and clicked a few buttons.

The same music that had once played in the now-abandoned bedroom on the third floor began to permeate through the bedroom he had once _thought _to be abandoned on the second. He wondered if Yoshimi had taken the disc from out of his old "haunt" and replaced it here. He wondered if _he _had taken the disc and replaced it here, and didn't remember doing it because his grip on his own memory was so shaky that he could barely remember his own name half the time.

He realized he didn't care.

Mokuba's eyes fluttered open, and he sat up.

Seto gave no reaction when the boy mumbled a quiet, groggy, "Morning, Niisama."

Seto didn't even know that Mokuba was there anymore.

* * *

**35.**

* * *

On the first morning of his new life, Mokuba woke up feeling ten times more tired than when he'd gone to sleep.

His head hurt. His whole body hurt. His mouth was dry and it took him a while before he could actually open his eyes. He didn't know what time it was, or why he wasn't just going back to sleep—unless the house was on fire, no way anybody would blame him for sleeping in...right?—but he sat up anyway. Maybe it was because his brother'd taught him that way. Maybe it was because he wanted to go to the game room and do something fun, and try to forget about the man who killed him.

Maybe it was because of the music.

He had no idea.

When Mokuba _did _manage to wrest his eyelids apart, at first he wasn't sure what he was seeing, _or _what he was hearing. He noticed a shape in front of him that vaguely resembled...what he thought a person should look like. It took several monumentally confusing seconds before he remembered that he was in his brother's room.

So he said, out of sheer habit, "Morning, Niisama."

He didn't get Seto's usual reply. Okay, so, "Morning, kid," wasn't exactly the most intricately composed greeting in the history of language, but it was nice to hear. Seto never said that to _other _people. It was special. Seto had lots of little names for his brother, depending on his mood. Mokuba sometimes wondered if Seto used them to make up for the fact that he never called him "Mokie" anymore, which had always been Mokuba's favorite.

So instead, Seto called him things like "kid," or "kiddo," or "imp," and it wasn't really about the names but about the way he said them. That's what made them special, and it was just one of the innumerable reasons Mokuba called him, "Niisama," even though he was probably the only person in the world with permission to use his real name.

While he waited, the young Kaiba finally began to understand what he was hearing.

Music.

...He knew it was _music _already, but he still stopped and wondered when he thought about it, because Seto didn't really listen to music a lot. He liked solitude, and quiet. On the rare occasions he _did _want to spice things up a little, he listened to classical stuff; piano and violin and things like that. Sometimes he _played_ on the piano he kept in the front parlor. Mokuba always liked that.

Seto had never, in all the years Mokuba had known him, listened to _this._

At first, before he really registered that he could see clearly, he wondered maybe if Seto had done this for him. Maybe Seto just thought his brother would like to wake up listening to his favorite band, maybe he would get breakfast in bed or something like that (he doubted it; this _was _Seto's bed, after all, and the day he let Mokuba eat here was the day Mokuba shaved his hair off and made a coat out of it), and Seto just wanted to...

But he never finished that thought.

Just as one song finished and the next started, Mokuba finally paid attention to what his brother _looked _like. He was dressed in his usual pristinely ironed suit. He'd picked a tan one today, and his shirt was black. His tie was black, too, and it took a second for Mokuba to see it. Seto's hair was perfectly combed, his face clean-shaven (unlike the night—morning—before, when he'd had a distinct five-o-clock shadow that would have reminded Mokuba of his father, from the handful of pictures he had seen of his biological parents, if he'd bothered to think about it). Everything looked just like it should in the morning.

Except...

_Oh, God._

"Niisama!" Mokuba cried, breathless like he'd just been punched in the stomach, as he tore himself away from the sheets strangling his legs and all but threw himself onto the floor in a mad rush for his brother.

Seto looked distracted sometimes. Every so often, his eyes would glaze over and you could tell that he wasn't paying attention to what was going on. It was rare, and almost every time Mokuba had seen it, it had been here, in this room, because Seto kept a stranglehold on his life, and he often simply refused to let himself lose focus anywhere but here, his personal sanctuary.

This wasn't like that.

Not even close.

Mokuba could only think of one time he'd ever seen Seto's eyes like this. Not glazed, but like glass. His face wasn't just blank, it was...slack. He'd let go, completely, and not because he'd _wanted_ to let go. This..._this..._

...Was just like the first time Yugi beat Seto at _Magic & Wizards. _The first time he'd used that weird...magic, or whatever it was, like Pegasus Crawford used.

Seto wasn't just lost in his own thoughts.

He was _gone._

Mokuba forced himself to stop from barreling into his sibling's prone, almost comatose form, and bit his lip to keep from crying. This couldn't be. Not again. Seto had been through too much of this...this...

Wait.

Seto always said, never jump to conclusions; sneak up on them, take them by surprise.

Maybe...maybe this wasn't...

The black-haired boy took several deep, steadying breaths, and began to inspect his brother's face, and especially his eyes, more closely. There was a tiny little smear of blood just behind his left ear, from shaving. His jaw was tight, not slack, but Mokuba wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. He wasn't sure at all.

Now that he was closer, Mokuba realized that Seto's bright cobalt eyes weren't blank at all; they were just as vibrant as ever. They just...weren't _aware. _Seto could still see, he was still conscious, he just...

His thin eyebrows were quavering, a distinct crease furrowing his brow in something between anger and...pain. Sadness of the deepest order, that's what this was. Deep, cutting, wrenching grief. Mokuba's lower lip began quivering, and he all but chomped down on it. He could feel tears forming, burning his eyes. He knew where that grief, that pain, came from. He knew what to...what to blame for it. _Who _to blame for it.

He dared to put a shaking hand on his brother's shoulder.

"...Nii...sama?"

It was like a switch had been thrown. Like he'd pressed a button beneath Seto's jacket. The elder Kaiba's face snapped upward, his eyes cleared, and it was like...like a computer turning on. Mokuba twitched, and as nice as it was to see the slack _wrongness _leave his brother's body, this was somehow more frightening. Nobody could switch emotions this quickly. This wasn't right. This wasn't healthy, and it wasn't natural.

Seto turned to face his brother, and a smile rose on his thin lips. Mokuba didn't trust it. The realization hit the black-haired boy like a speeding train that for the first time in his life, Mokuba was scared of his big brother's face. Of his eyes.

Of _him._

"Hey," Seto said. His voice _almost_ sounded natural. Like a recording. Seto's eyebrows furrowed again, this time in concern, and he reached out a hand. Mokuba had to clench his fists to keep from flinching away from that hand as it brushed a few strands of hair from his face. "Are you feeling well, Mokuba?" he asked.

His voice was too low. Too slow. He sounded groggy, slow-motion, and it seemed like his lips were moving _too _precisely. Like this was all some kind of act. But Mokuba knew that it wasn't. Seto never put on masks. Not when they were together. When they were together, Seto finally took his masks _off. _He was finally himself, and Mokuba had always loved those times, had always cherished those times, because Seto just...looked like himself. He looked _right._

But this...this was horribly, irrevocably _wrong._

"Mokuba?" Seto repeated, and there was the first inkling of honesty in his tone now. It was concern. Of course it was. Seto had always been able to see right through his brother's mood. Mokuba could hide things from other people, mostly because he was a kid and nobody ever really paid too much attention to him, but not from Seto. Not from Niisama.

"I'm...I..." Mokuba began, stumbling over the words like his tongue had literally been tied into a knot. "I'm...hungry," he finally blurted out, even though he wasn't. On the contrary, he felt sick, and thought that just the sight of food would make him throw up.

But anything was better than...this.

Anything was better than that mechanical, habitual, fake smile.

Seto blinked, surprised by this answer, but eventually he nodded. "Of course. You're shaking, Mokuba. Are you cold? Are you still tired? Get back in bed, little brother. You need to let your body rest. I'll have Yoshimi bring you something. Go, go. It's okay."

Slowly, flatly, Mokuba thought that he should shave his head and make a coat. But the joke wasn't funny. He didn't feel like laughing. He wanted to cry, and when he climbed woodenly onto his brother's bed and watched Seto tuck the covers around him with all the emotion of a battery-operated action figure, it took every bit of control that he had (which wasn't much right now, but surprisingly, it was enough) _not _to cry.

This wasn't right.

He didn't want this.

In the back of his mind, he heard a whisper of a thought, that if this was what life was going to be like after a miracle, then he didn't want miracles. If this was what a miracle did to his big brother, then miracles be damned. If this was what he had to look forward to every day, he wanted to go back to Vinewood Terrace Cemetery, and just go back to...nothing.

As Seto walked over to the door, Mokuba realized that he didn't want to cry anymore.

He was too scared to cry.

* * *

**36.**

* * *

Some part of Seto knew, as he left his bedroom to find Yoshimi, that this wasn't working. That what he was trying to do wasn't going to fly.

Mokuba could see right through it.

And not only could he see through it, but he didn't trust it. And some part of Seto knew that if Mokuba didn't trust him, then it didn't matter what he was _trying _to do. It didn't matter what he thought he _should _do. If Mokuba didn't trust him, then whatever this was...was wrong. End of story.

He dropped the facade. He found Yoshimi feverishly dusting one of the bookshelves in the library, and he said, "Mokuba is hungry." He had a feeling that this had been a lie, but on the off-chance that it wasn't, he didn't intend to have his brother want for anything right now.

...Hn.

Ironic.

"Will you and Bocchan be coming to the dining room?" Yoshimi asked immediately, breaking his train of thought and bringing him back to reality. "Or would you like me to bring something up to him?"

"Do that. He's tired, and he seems to have been through a lot in the past few days. I want him resting. Have Connolly make him French toast and sausage."

"Ah..." Yoshimi said with a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye. "His very favorite. At once, Seto-sama. And should I have Connolly make up something for you, as well?"

"...An apple," Seto said eventually. He wasn't particularly hungry, but seeing Mokuba's face as he'd tucked him in had woken the young executive enough to remember that he hadn't been taking care of himself lately, and he couldn't trust his body to tell him what it needed right now. It was too used to running on nothing, and his mind was too used to _letting _it run on nothing.

It was time to take back control.

Yoshimi didn't ask if he was sure. She didn't ask if he wanted anything else. She knew better. She'd been around him long enough to know that what he said was what he meant, and what he requested was what he wanted.

"Of course, Seto-sama," Yoshimi said, bowed, and left the room.

Seto turned around as she passed him, and stopped in the doorway. He contemplated which direction he should go. He wondered if he should go back to his room, and risk making Mokuba uncomfortable again.

But then he realized that the idea of leaving him alone, of being separated from him for any length of time, wasn't only abhorrent. It was terrifying. Fear welled up in him like a sickness, and his heart raced as he all but blurred down the hallway toward the stairs.

He cursed Yugi Mutou and his goddamned games.

This had all been planned.

This had all been orchestrated.

And the bastard was probably laughing about it.

* * *

**37.**

* * *

"Do you _like _driving people crazy?"

Yugi wasn't sure what made him ask the question. He had been telling himself for months now that Yami wouldn't answer things like that. He'd _known _for months now that Yami didn't like answering what he considered obvious inquiries. And he certainly didn't like holding his host's hand when it came to figuring things like this out.

Yami continued: "You were the one, the one for me. Now that you're gone, it's hard to see. So much of me has gone away. There's no need to stay another day. But someone's got to pay."

Yugi sighed, shook his head, and turned back to his desk. "I'll take that as a yes," he mumbled. "Did you bring Mokuba back to Kaiba like that _just _so you could claim that they have the same birthday? Don't you think you could have done it a _bit _more...I don't know, subtly? Eased him into it a bit more? You scared the daylights out of him, you know. He looked ready to kill. What would _that _have solved?"

"The real question, _Aibou," _said Yami, slowly and contemplatively, "is what wasting time worrying about it, and questioning my motives, is going to solve. My motives shouldn't matter to anyone but me. Is Kaiba going to care, once he gets over his initial shock, _why _I brought his brother back? Not for long. He's going to care that he has a reason to live again. He's going to care that an innocent boy has a _chance _to live again."

"And you...don't care about that at all. Do you?"

Yami shrugged. "I don't suppose I do. It's interesting to contemplate, I suppose. If you're asking if I relate to it, or if I understand it personally...no. Not really. I've never understood the depths of sacrifice to which each Kaiba aspires for the other. But then, that's not exactly important, now, is it? If Kaiba goes insane, well...that's a pity. But there's a very real chance that all he needs is to remember himself. To remember just how pathetically he clings to Mokuba for validation."

"Wow. You're a regular philanthropist, aren't you?"

Yami smirked. "What was that phrase? Your mother said it once. 'Honesty is the best policy.' Well, that may or may not be true, but you want to be careful about that idea, nonetheless. _I _am honest. Far more honest than anyone else you know, I daresay."

"Most people would consider that a good thing."

"Most people are dishonest."

Yami always had an answer, no matter the question; he always had a response, no matter the statement. Social interaction was the greatest of games to this ancient adrenaline junkie, and he thrived on confusing the hell out of people. Yugi often found that it was easier to indulge him than it was to ignore him, and so he was often wrapped up in the gambler's web.

Did that make Yami a spider?

And was Yugi, then, an insect?

Yugi saw the wicked smile rising on his partner's face and knew that he'd hit the mark.

"I don't regret what we did to bring Mokuba back," Yugi said, "but you had to know that reuniting them the way you did was going to be hard. On both of them. You could have eased them into it."

"No, I don't think I could have. What was the first thing Mokuba thought about when he was reborn? His brother. Do you honestly think that boy would have let us ease him into anything? If we'd built a prison cell to keep him away from Kaiba, he would have picked up a spoon and dug through the walls. And if he had no spoon, if he had no tools at all, he would have bitten off a fingernail and used _it _to dig through the walls. And if he had no fingernails, he would wait for them to grow back. The gods themselves would be hard-pressed to keep those two apart. As evidenced by the fact that even Death failed at it."

"Because of _you. _Not them."

"Don't be so sure, _Aibou."_

Yugi felt a shudder ripple through him, wondering if Yami meant what he _thought _Yami meant. The grin was gone, and the spirit simply raised an expectant eyebrow, and Yugi knew that it was true.

"It...could have _failed?"_

"Very easily."

Yugi shot to his feet. Sudden fury pounded through his blood, and he felt like he was going to explode. "Are you _kidding me? _After what we put into that ritual, after you _guilt-tripped _everybody into making that sacrifice, we might have ended up with _nothing?"_

Yami's face didn't even twitch. Something about the haughty indignation there reminded Yugi that this man had once ruled over an entire country as a living god. When the spirit spoke, it sounded like ice taken audible form: "And would you have had me admit that to them, to you, beforehand? Would you have made this sacrifice, would you have taken the risk, if you'd _known _it to be a risk? I do not consider the feelings of others to take precedence over necessary actions."

"You...you...I can't _believe _you would...!"

"If Kaiba had come to me, I would have told _him. _Do you know why?"

"Because...because he would have done it anyway. Because it wouldn't have mattered to him if there was a chance at failure. Any price would have been worth it to Kaiba...just for the _chance_ that it would work."

"...No."

Yugi blinked, and the haze of anger was lifted in favor of confusion. "What?"

"I would have been honest with Kaiba because he deserves it. Because he has _earned _it. You need to understand something, Yugi. I do not trust your friends in these matters. Their hatred of Kaiba clouds their minds and obstructs their vision, and if I must manipulate them in order to keep Kaiba sane and halfway healthy, then that is a small price to pay."

"...That makes no sense. Kaiba's more valuable to you than...than...?"

"Believe what you will. It makes no difference to me if you understand or approve. My goal has been achieved, and so has _yours_, might I add. Does the might-have-been matter so much to you? You may want to rethink that. It leads to nothing good."

And with that, it was apparent that Yami believed the conversation to be over.

He disappeared.

* * *

**38.**

* * *

"Well, well..._someone's_ hungry today."

In response to Akiko's observation, Mokuba made a grunting noise that wasn't quite a word as he jabbed a piece of sausage and topped it with a strip of toast, and dipped it into the pool of syrup on his plate. Now that food was in front of him, he was famished. Confronted with his favorite morning meal, any sense of sickness had gone away. The entire world consisted of Mokuba, the fork in his hand, and this beautiful, heavenly, otherworldly...

"I realize that you're hungry and that you enjoy that particular meal," came a sudden voice, more familiar than any other, intruding on his little world and making reality come back with all the suddenness of a lightning strike, "but you could at least _act_ as though I've taught you table manners."

Mokuba looked up, looking like nothing so much as a cornered rodent when the lights come on, and stared at the man standing behind Akiko. The man with the ghost of a smirk on his face and his hands in his pockets; the man he idolized.

He almost let out a sigh of relief.

He almost thought he'd imagined the rest of this morning.

He almost let himself believe that his Niisama was back.

But there was still something wrong. There was still something that Seto couldn't hide. Not from Mokuba, who had spent so many years of his young life studying his elder sibling's face. Not from Mokuba, who had spent so many years paying such close attention to his elder sibling's moods. There were certain things that Seto just couldn't hide.

But one thing Seto had _always_ been able to hide was pain.

Another was fear.

And so to see what looked like both stamped into his eyes was almost enough to send the boy diving under the bed to hide. This wasn't right. It still wasn't right. It was _almost _right; Seto had come close, so very, very close.

But his eyes...

His eyes were still...

"Yes, Niisama," Mokuba mumbled, after he'd swallowed. "Sorry, Niisama."

Seto nodded. "It's okay, kid. Just slow it down a bit, before you choke."

Mokuba nodded. Turned his eyes away.

A knife stabbed through his heart as he realized he couldn't look at his brother.

His hunger was suddenly gone. He ate a bite of sawdust-coated cardboard and tried to keep from crying. Nobody spoke; even Akiko seemed to have noticed that something was wrong. The admonition was hardly out of character for Seto, and usually Mokuba wasn't affected by such things. He took it very seriously when his brother was actually upset with him, but something as tame as telling him to eat more slowly shouldn't have done anything to dampen the black-haired boy's mood.

"...When you're finished," Seto said slowly, "if you're ready, I need to speak with you. Take your time, Mokuba. We don't have much time, but we have enough. Take...take it easy."

And Seto left.

Another knife shot through Mokuba's entire body, propelled by the relief he felt.

No.

No, he...he didn't...

He didn't want this.

* * *

**39.**

* * *

Yugi sometimes wondered how Yami always seemed to know what was going to happen before it did. Could he just...read the future? Was he some kind of prophet? Yugi couldn't tell anymore, and was starting to think that it didn't matter.

He sat in his soul room, idly twisting and turning a Rubik's Cube in his hands as his partner took over. In the beginning, Yami would wait until his host met some kind of danger before taking control of the body they shared. As they both grew more comfortable with the situation in which they found themselves, though, he started doing it more often.

But he never did it for the hell of it. He never did it for fun.

There was always a reason.

At 2:37 on the afternoon following Mokuba Kaiba's resurrection, the Turtle Game Shop's phone rang, and for the first time Yami reached over and answered it. He didn't bother with Yugi's usual greeting. He already knew it wasn't a customer.

"A most pleasant afternoon to you, little one," Yami said, and Yugi knew that the gambler was leaning on the glass-topped counter on the shop's ground floor, flipping through a magazine without looking at it, even though he couldn't see anything through his own eyes. He could feel Yami moving his body, could feel each shift, twist, and twitch.

It still made him dizzy, even after the multitude of times it had happened. Yugi closed his eyes and stopped moving, and it almost felt like he was in control again.

Almost.

_"...Yugi?" _came a small, frightened, quivering voice from the other line.

Yugi felt his lips curve into Yami's familiar smirk. "Close enough," he purred. "You sound frightened, young Kaiba. Is something the matter?" Anyone else would have heard the same cocky, self-assured, pseudo-narcissistic tone of voice the ancient spirit always used. Yugi heard differently. He heard the concern masquerading as idle interest.

He almost thought he heard...doubt.

_"It's Niisama," _Mokuba said softly, on the verge of tears.

"Is your brother not well?" Yami asked.

_"I...I don't think so."_

"Well," the ancient king said, clearing his throat and setting his magazine aside, "you must understand. You were...gone...for twelve days. Your brother was bound to be affected. It will take him time to readjust. You should already know this. After all, who knows the great Seto Kaiba better than you?"

_"It's not the same," _Mokuba protested, and Yugi could hear, plain as day, the desperation in the boy's tone. _"He...he tried to...he's trying to hide it. He's...hurt, Yugi, and he's trying to pretend like he isn't. Niisama...N-Niisama...doesn't trust me."_

Yugi felt laughter rising up in Yami's throat, and he felt the spirit force it back down. "Now, now, let's not get ahead of ourselves. You are one of perhaps five people your brother _does _trust. And of those five, you are most assuredly at the top of the list." Yami was being...nice. Yugi felt a shock of superstitious fear go up his spine at the very thought. "Understand, Mokuba, that right now your Niisama is going through...something of a rough patch, if you take my meaning. He isn't sure what to make of the reality in which he finds himself."

_"...What do you mean?"_

"I mean, little one, that what I did for you is, according to your brother's every belief system, entirely impossible. Your return home, after all this...well. He is having a hard time believing that it's true. Tell me, when you woke up this morning, when you first spoke to him. Was he...too nice? Was he _unnaturally _nice?"

Yugi almost heard the disbelief in Mokuba's silence.

Yami smirked again. "I thought so. And allow me to venture another guess. He left the room. And when you saw him next, he was..._almost _back to his old self. He was self-assured, in control, even a touch...waspish? But not quite there yet. Am I right?"

Another length of silence.

When Mokuba spoke next, it was with fear, suspicion, but most of all...hope.

_"His eyes...his eyes aren't right. He looked...like he did when...when you did that thing. That...crush thing."_

"Mind crush," Yami murmured. "Such a theatrical name. I do wonder where I came up with it. Hm. In any case, I thought so. Listen to me, Mokuba. Your brother is straining to return himself to normal. Imagine something for me, will you? Imagine that you and he are on a boat. In the middle of the ocean."

Yugi wasn't sure where the gambler was going with this.

_"O...kay?"_

Apparently Mokuba wasn't, either.

"And imagine that you fell overboard. You fell. You sank. He couldn't reach you before you disappeared. So, off he drifts, listless, restless, with nothing to focus his energy. He sees the person who pushed you overboard, still on the boat, but he can't find the strength to swim."

Yugi drew in a deep, steadying breath. Yami didn't.

The feeling was...frightening.

"Now, imagine that I have pulled you from the water, and back onto the boat. He sees you. He cannot believe that you are there. He saw you vanish. But now, the one who threw you into the ocean in the first place is suddenly a threat again. So now your brother must swim. Swim for his life. For _your _life. Right now, he is thrashing, flailing, drowning, trying to remember _how."_

Mokuba did not respond.

"Give him time, youngling," Yami said, surprisingly gently. "He will remember. In time, he will remember. For now, just...toss out a rope, and see if he will take hold. See if he will allow himself the help."

_"...He won't. He'll think he's being a burden on me."_

"Possibly. But it doesn't hurt to throw out the rope, anyway. Just in case. Remember, Mokuba: you are the only one whose help he _may _accept. Just that is an honor. Just that puts you above the rest of us. Stay at his side. He will remember."

Almost twenty seconds went by. No one spoke.

A soft click announced that Mokuba had hung up.

Yami sighed.

He pulled back, and left it to Yugi to set the shop's phone back onto its cradle.

* * *

**40.**

* * *

Mokuba walked through the hallway on the second floor of the Kaiba Estate, mulling over what Yugi had told him. Or...whoever he was. He wondered if it could really be that simple. Would Seto come back? If he was given enough time, would he go back to normal?

Mokuba wasn't sure. Yugi knew Seto well, better than almost anyone, but he hadn't seen the look in Seto's eyes. The...blank, desolate despair. Yugi didn't know Seto like Mokuba knew him. It couldn't be that simple. It just couldn't be.

Seto wasn't just sad. He wasn't just scared. He wasn't just angry.

Seto was dying.

Twelve days was too long. He was still breathing, he was still walking and talking and thinking, but he was dying just the same. And Mokuba didn't know if there was any force strong enough to pull him back from the brink.

The young Kaiba stopped suddenly, and found himself staring at the closed door to his brother's bedchamber. He blinked, stumbled back a step, and wasn't sure what to think. He hadn't intended to come here.

Or maybe he had.

Drawing in a deep breath, Mokuba opened the door and stepped inside.

Seto was standing at the foot of his bed, hands clasped behind his back, looking straight ahead at nothing. Mokuba felt a pang of guilt when he remembered that he hadn't seen his brother since breakfast two hours ago. Seto made no visible reaction to the intrusion. Mokuba may as well been a puff of dust.

Or, so he thought.

Until Seto spoke, in a tone fit to freeze the blood.

"...Did Yugi help you?"

He didn't look at Mokuba, and no emotion crossed his face. The boy almost thought he'd imagined it, that his ears were playing tricks on him, but that was absurd. He'd seen his brother's lips move.

Mokuba turned his head away, looking down at the floor, feeling suddenly ashamed.

He said, "I don't know."

"Hm," said Seto. Still, no emotion. "I see. So, then, that phone call amounted to nothing."

It sounded like there should have been accusation in his tone. But there wasn't.

"...Pretty much," Mokuba said, nervously wiping his hands on his shirt.

Something resembling a scoff escaped Seto's lips, and he turned his head away. "I keep close track of this mansion's security, and know with absolute certainty that our phone lines are clean. I cannot say the same of the Mutou family." He finally turned to look at Mokuba, and Mokuba wished he hadn't. "No one outside of this estate, aside from Yugi's band of minions, knows that you are even alive. As far as the vast majority of the human population is concerned, you are dead."

"But...but I'm _not _dead. Not anymore."

Seto closed his eyes and sighed. "Clearly. And it will have to be dealt with. I would have liked, however, to handle the information more delicately. There are any number of people who will be overjoyed to know that you are back among them. Those same people will be incensed if I do not deliver them that information promptly. I had hoped to come up with a proper strategy beforehand. Now it seems I must...act quickly."

Was Seto angry?

Mokuba could usually tell when his brother was in a bad mod, but right now, he could barely tell if Seto was in any discernible mood at all. His voice was too flat, too level. Not calm, but...empty.

"I'm...I'm sorry, Niisama," the black-haired boy stammered, feeling his face go hot with embarrassment. "I didn't...I didn't think..."

"Clearly," Seto said again, under his breath.

Mokuba flinched, lowered his eyes. He couldn't remember the last time Seto had been flippant with him. The worst part about it was that he _still _didn't hear anything in Seto's voice. Even irritation wasn't coming through.

"I was scared," Mokuba blurted out, even though he'd had every intention of slipping silently out of the room. He looked up, and saw Seto was still watching him. "I...I'm _still _scared. Niisama, you...you're not...you're not _you."_

At last, emotion.

Seto was surprised. Confused.

He did not speak.

Mokuba continued. "I know it...it...hurt."

"What hurt?" Seto asked, deadpan, even though he knew the answer. He _had _to know the answer. Didn't he?

"Me. When I...died."

Seto turned his eyes away. "You're here now. That doesn't matter anymore."

"Yes, it does. Niisama, you aren't acting like..."

No. That wasn't true. He _was _acting like himself.

The key word being, "acting."

"You're trying to pretend it didn't happen," Mokuba said, and Seto again looked surprised. But he didn't look like he wanted to admit it. He kept his eyes averted. "You're trying to pretend nothing's wrong, but...but _this _is wrong. I know I...hurt you, Niisama. I should have listened to you. I should have followed the rules. But...but I didn't. And I hurt you."

"No," Seto said. "No, Mokuba. You didn't hurt me. You don't have to worry about me. I'm sorry I snapped at you. It won't happen again. I need to figure out what we're going to do about...this. Excuse me." He made to leave the room. "I need to discuss this with—"

Mokuba didn't move.

Seto stopped two steps in front of his younger sibling, looking _almost _puzzled. He crossed his arms, shifted his stance. "Mokuba. Move, please. We don't have time."

"...Why do you always do this?" Mokuba asked, and he could hear the tears in his own voice. He looked up at Seto and blinked them back as they burned the backs of his eyes. "Why is it...why is it always about...me?"

Seto blinked. "What?"

"Why are you saying sorry? Why aren't you mad at me for breaking the rules? Why...why are you...pretending like you're okay? I know you're not, Niisama. I can tell."

"I'm fine."

_"No!"_ It came out almost like a scream, and Mokuba shut his eyes as he finally began to cry. "No, you're not! You're doing it again!"

"Doing _what_, exactly?"

"You're faking! I know you're faking!"

"I'm not faking anything, Mokuba. I have no idea what you're talking about."

Mokuba opened his eyes again and stared up into Seto's eyes. They were completely dry. Dry, and bloodshot. He said, without thinking, "...Do you think I'm stupid?"

Those bloodshot cobalt eyes widened, and Seto's mouth opened with them. He faltered back a step. "What? Of course not. Why would you say th—"

"Don't you trust me?"

"Y...Yes, of course I do. You _know_ I do."

"Then stop _lying _to me!"

It came out like a whip-crack, and Seto retreated another step. "Mokuba...what the hell's gotten into you? I'm not lying. You know I wouldn't lie to you. I've never lied to you."

"Yeah...sure."

Mokuba lowered his gaze again, and so he didn't see it when Seto all but collapsed to his knees, and when he grabbed his shoulders, the boy let out a squeak of surprise. It felt like he'd swallowed his throat. Seto was looking him straight in the eye, and Mokuba could finally read the emotion in them. The shields had come down.

Seto wasn't dying anymore.

He was terrified.

"Mokuba, I'm _not _lying to you," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Whatever I did to upset you, I'm sorry. You have to believe me, Mokuba. I'm _sorry_. You...you must be tired. Are you hungry? Do you want to play a game? What can I do, Mokuba? What can I do to convince you?"

"...I...I want..."

Seto looked like a convict begging to escape execution. Like a starving man waiting for table scraps. The fear in his eyes wasn't rational. His breath was short and shallow, he was shaking, and his hands were gripping Mokuba's shoulders so tightly that it felt like his arms would dislocate.

"You're hurting me, Niisama."

Seto shot back, letting go of his brother like his hands had caught fire. "I'm sorry," he gasped, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking. Are you okay? I'm so sorry, Mokuba, I didn't mean to—"

Seto cut off his own sentence as if just realizing how hysterical he sounded. He closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and gathered himself.

"I know," Mokuba whispered. "You...you never mean it. I know, Niisama."

He didn't know what he was saying. He didn't know why he was talking to Seto like this. He didn't want to do it. Every fiber of muscle, every synapse in his brain, every drop of blood and strand of DNA in his body wanted nothing more than to comfort his brother. But somehow, the floodgates had been opened.

He couldn't stop himself.

"You never mean to hurt me," he repeated. "Ever...ever since I was born, you always thought of me, you always tried to protect me from everything. You never complain, you never say anything about how hard it is to take care of me. You never admit it when _you're _hurting. You just...pretend it isn't real. Don't you...don't you know, it hurts me, too?"

Seto stared at his brother for a moment, then lowered his gaze to the floor.

"...I don't pretend," he said. "I don't admit when I'm hurting because it doesn't matter. There is nothing to be done for it, Mokuba. The world isn't going to change at my whim. The man who...who killed you...isn't going to change, just because I admit that it...that he..."

Seto's lips curled in a snarl of abject rage.

His eyes lost their fear.

He stood, smoothly, to his feet.

"He isn't going to change. There is nothing to be done for it."

He slipped to the side and strode through the doorway.

Mokuba turned back to watch him.

Seto stopped, but didn't look back.

"Blood...for blood," the elder Kaiba said cryptically, and continued down the hall, fists tightly clenched at his sides..

Mokuba remained on the floor, and cried.

* * *

**41.**

* * *

When she entered Mokuba's room, he didn't look up. He kept his face buried in his pillow and pretended to be asleep. He wasn't crying anymore; not openly. Tears still fell from his eyes, but he'd managed to control the sobbing. He was almost entirely silent now.

But that didn't stop Yoshimi Akiko from sensing something was wrong.

He knew it was her. No one else would have come into the room without knocking. He could hear her sorting through the mess of clothes and toys on the floor. She said, "If you aren't careful, Bocchan, you're going to need climbing equipment to make it out of here before long."

Her tone was light enough. But he could tell that she knew.

She always knew.

She sat down on the edge of the bed. "It seems Seto-sama isn't himself. Or maybe he's too _much _like himself. You know he has to find the person who wants to hurt you, Bocchan. You're in danger."

Mokuba sniffled. "...He won't...he won't...stop."

"No, he won't," Akiko replied gently, patting the black-haired boy's shoulder. "I know, it's scary sometimes. Seto-sama was...trained this way. Mister Ackerman says that he was quite a different person when he first became a Kaiba. Is that true, Bocchan?"

Mokuba turned his head, opened his eyes, and stared at his desk, on the other side of the room. He said, "...Kind of."

"I suppose Seto-sama has always had a...take-charge personality. Isn't that right?"

"Y-Yeah."

"I was hired after the old Kaiba-sama died. I never met him." Akiko chuckled. "I probably wouldn't have _been _hired if not for that. I hear his standards put even Seto-sama's to shame. I wonder if that's why Seto-sama acts the way he does, sometimes."

"...Otousa—Gozaburo...ruined him."

Mokuba berated himself. Gozaburo had never been a father. He'd been a prison warden, a slave-driver. He didn't deserve a title. He never had.

"I don't know," Akiko said. "Ruined is such a strong way of putting it, don't you think? Seto-sama is still very much his own person. How else can you explain what the Kaiba Corporation has become? I don't know about you, but I don't think...ahem...Gozaburo would have been caught dead running a video-game studio."

Mokuba almost smiled.

The idea was ludicrous.

"You'd have my bet on that," came a new voice from the doorway.

It was Roland Ackerman.

Mokuba finally sat up, turned around.

Roland wasn't wearing his sunglasses. He had his arms crossed, and he was looking straight at Mokuba. A twitch of a smile rose on the man's lips. "Seems Master Kaiba hasn't quite switched gears just yet," he said.

Mokuba knew he couldn't tell them the truth. He couldn't explain _why _Seto was acting like he was. They would never believe him, for one. And for two, Seto would probably explode if Mokuba were to tell _anyone_.

So he said, "He hasn't been sleeping...has he?"

Roland barked a short laugh, cut it off. "Ahem. Pardon. No, not particularly well. Even for him. Master Kaiba has been searching for the threat against your life quite diligently. Give him some time, young master. He'll come around."

Yugi said the same thing.

Mokuba still didn't quite believe it.

"This...this person..." Mokuba said after a long moment of silence, "...what if...what if Niisama can't find him?"

Akiko and Roland glanced at each other.

"If there is one thing I know about your brother," Roland said, "it is that once he sets his mind to a task, God Himself cannot stop him. Properly motivated, Master Kaiba is nothing short of a force of nature."

Akiko smiled and nodded. "You don't have to worry, Bocchan."

Mokuba let out a shaky breath. He turned his eyes from Akiko to Roland and back again. "...Did...did Niisama send you to check on me?"

"Not in so many words," Roland said. "We have been working for your brother long enough to know when he is in a foul mood, and when that foul mood has to do with you."

Akiko smiled. "Seto-sama worries for you."

Mokuba almost laughed. "Niisama's always worried about me."

Roland _did _laugh. Quietly.

"Like father, like son," he murmured.

Mokuba blinked. "Huh?"

Roland turned away, showing his back. "We all know that Master Gozaburo was no father to you," he said. He glanced over his shoulder. "And you know better than any of us how seriously Master Kaiba takes his responsibility to you. Try to remember, he's handling things the only way he knows how."

Akiko stood up, still smiling down on her young charge. "I told your friends to be patient with him. You need to be patient, too. He needs you, more than anyone else, to be patient."

Mokuba had a feeling that Roland and Akiko had planned this speech. Perhaps even rehearsed it. But he knew they were sincere, and he knew they were right. So he nodded, wiped his eyes with his shirt sleeve, and offered the slightest of smiles.

They left the room, and Mokuba sat there.

And with a jolt that felt like a lightning storm inside his body, he remembered.

* * *

**42.**

* * *

As night fell, Seto was once again standing at the foot of his bed.

This time, though, his back was turned. He faced the wall, and his hands were in his pockets. He didn't react when Mokuba entered the room. After a few moments of tense silence had passed, he broke it by saying, "...I won't have him worrying about this. See to it that he is comfortable, and leave him be. Let him rest."

Mokuba cleared his throat. "...Niisama."

Seto did not flinch. He lowered his head. "Mokuba," he murmured. "I might have known." He turned to face his sibling with an expression unlike anything Mokuba had ever seen. He looked weary, old beyond his years, his face taut with worry and remorse.

Mokuba blinked back tears. He had cried enough for one day. He tried a smile.

Seto offered a facsimile of his usual smirk in return. "Are you feeling better?"

"A little."

Seto drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You have always been the one person on this earth able to see through me at every turn. I should have known better than to deceive you." He removed his hands from his pockets, made to cross them over his chest, then stopped and let them fall at his sides. "You are my family. The only part of my family still alive. I don't know what Yugi did to make that true, and truth be told, I would rather be left in the dark."

"...Me, too."

"Sometime during the past twelve days, I forgot why I fight for you. I forgot why I have made the choices, walked the path, that I have. I let myself forget just what you mean to me, and it seems as though I am beginning to remember."

Mokuba wasn't sure what to make of this. He frowned, confused. "Niisama?"

Seto stepped in front of his brother and knelt down again. He did not grip Mokuba's shoulders this time. "You have stood at my side, faithfully, ever since you were old enough to stand at all. Every choice I've made, every mistake, every victory, you have been with me. I owe the life I have made, the legacy that I have built, all to you."

Mokuba knew that he was blushing. He lowered his gaze and fidgeted.

"When you...died...when I stood at the edge of your grave and watched you being lowered into the ground beside our mother, I...broke." Mokuba looked up again, and his eyes locked with his brother's. "Yugi mentioned to me once, something you said to him. You said, 'Without Niisama, I have no reason to live.' The converse is true, as well, Mokuba. I tried to hold on, I tried to move forward, to seek retribution for you. I tried with everything I had to exact payment for what was done to you. But I...I could not. There was not enough in me to fight any longer."

Seto lowered his gaze, and Mokuba thought he looked like a knight kneeling before his king, awaiting judgment for some unforgivable sin. The boy tried to lift his arms, tried to comfort his still-grieving sibling, but he couldn't move.

"I...I always...cursed our father," Seto continued, "for abandoning us. For abandoning you. I told myself that he was unforgivably weak. I told myself that he was wrong, that he should be damned for leaving us behind simply because Mother was gone. I did not realize just what he felt, I never could understand what could hurt so badly that he would leave us."

He looked up again.

"I understand him now."

"Niisama..."

Seto finally lifted his arms, and laid his hands gently on Mokuba's shoulders. "I love you, Mokuba. More than power, more than glory, more than money and _certainly _more than my own life. I am quite literally nothing without you. I said once that the Blue-Eyes White Dragon was the embodiment of my strength, of my pride, of my very soul. I was wrong."

Seto blinked away a tear of his own.

"It's you, little brother. Not some dragon on a laminated slip of paper. You."

Mokuba wanted to speak, but couldn't.

"You were right, Mokuba. Your death hurt me in a way that I could never explain. Without you, I lost everything. I lost the will to fight. I lost the strength to fight. And instead of being honest with you, now that you have returned to me, I pushed you away."

He lowered his hands again, and leaned back.

"This...ritual." He grimaced as if the very word caused him physical pain. "It goes against everything I've ever believed. My entire life, I have built myself upon a foundation of science. Cold, hard, irrefutable fact. Magic...the very _concept _of magic...well...you know my feelings on the subject. And that..._that_ is the crux of my problem, Mokuba. Why this is so difficult for me. According to every belief I have ever held, you should not be here. You died, and that means it was over. There was no coming back, no second, third, fourth chances. Your life ended. Every fiber of me is screaming that that is the truth, that that is what I must face."

Mokuba bit his lower lip.

"And yet..." Seto continued, "...here you are. Here you stand, returned to me. My...my raison d'être, as Yugi calls you. You're here, you're breathing, talking, walking, eating, sleeping...you're _alive. _Even though you have already died once. And...and it...it's taking me longer than I had anticipated...to reconcile that." Seto drew in a steadying breath. "I _want _to," he admitted. "I want to throw every damned thing I've ever believed to the wayside, to just accept this as reality, to just let it..._be. _But there is a part of me. A small part. It won't let go. It's telling me that this...everything...is just an illusion. That your being here in front of me is just my mind's last feeble attempt to save me from insanity. It's telling me that if I give in...if I let this take over..."

A violent shudder went down his entire body.

"...Please, Mokuba. Give me time. Be patient with me, as you always have. Be patient...and forgive me. It won't be long before I...acclimate to the situation. I promise...I'll be able to accept it. Soon."

Mokuba still couldn't speak.

He could only nod, as he realized just what he was hearing.

His brother was laying every defense he'd ever had, every shield he'd ever created, aside. Seto was scared, hurt, confused, depressed, and for the first time he wasn't doing anything to fight any of it. For the first time, Mokuba was seeing the boy his brother had been, before the world forced him into manhood far too early.

The young Kaiba berated himself. Of _course _Seto would feel this way. He should have known better than anyone that rituals, magic, resurrections, would all be impossible for Seto to believe. What reason had he ever had to believe in miracles? When had life ever given him one?

And here _he_ was, the one person in all the world that Seto actually trusted without question, trying to force him into it.

Mokuba realized. He had to fix this.

He didn't think. He couldn't afford to think. Not now. He simply did what came natural.

He threw himself into his big brother's arms and held on like his life depended on it.

Seto sat, stunned, for a few seconds; then his arms reached up, around, and his hands rested on Mokuba's back. There was something different about his embrace this time. This time, it was real. This time, Seto believed it. Mokuba could tell.

He didn't say anything. He knew that if he tried, it would only feed Seto's fear that this was an illusion, because he was sure that Seto _expected _him to speak, to say something, anything. He somehow knew that the only way to prove that he was real, prove that he was alive again, was to defy expectations.

Eventually, a short eternity later, Mokuba pulled out of the hug, even though he didn't want to, and decided to try something. He said, "...Niisama? I...I was...wondering. Something."

"Yes? What is it, Mokuba?" So gentle. So gentle that it sounded like a different person.

Embarrassment heated Mokuba's face again, and he very nearly ran from the room.

But he knew he couldn't do that. He forced himself to continue: "...Well...I was...dead. For real. Like you said. But Yugi...brought me back. So doesn't that mean...that I was...born again?"

Seto blinked, frowned. "...I suppose."

"Well...doesn't that mean...doesn't it mean that we...have the same birthday now?"

Seto's eyes widened. He didn't speak.

"So...if it's my birthday, too...then...do you think we could...you know...do something? To celebrate? Together?"

The silence that followed was thick enough to strangle. Mokuba bit his lower lip again, playing with his shirt and cursing himself for saying something so stupid. What was he doing? Seto had important things to do. He didn't have time to play around and blow out birthday candles and eat cake! He wished he could take it all back, wished he could just leave the room and forget he ever made such an idiot of himself.

He turned, made to leave.

Seto gripped his wrist and held him in place.

And pulled him into another hug that threatened to choke the very life out of him. Mokuba felt tears spring from his eyes again, and he surrendered to it because it was the only thing he _could _do, and all thoughts of foolishness, of idiocy, all thoughts of the man who killed him and the steps Seto would have to take to find him, every single thought except one fled Mokuba's mind as he realized the only thing that was important right now:

Seto was laughing.

* * *

**END.**


	5. Mayet's Feather

_**Perhaps it's fitting that this particular work be risen from the grave. It's a new season, and a new dawn is rising. I've been accepted into the English program at the University of the Pacific's campus in Stockton, California. This coming fall, I'll be pursuing my teaching degree.**_

_** In light of that, I decided to work out some of the tweaks on this project and finally get it up here. There may be some tweaks to previous chapters coming later, but for now, let's get it done. The core story is the same, and it's nearing completion.**_

_** Those of you who have been waiting for this update, I'm sorry that it took me so abysmally long. Some projects turn out to be difficult to keep going, and I lost this one for a while. But it's back, and I hope you enjoy what I have for you today.**_

_** Keep an eye out; we're almost done.**_

* * *

******PART FIVE:  
Mayet's Feather **

* * *

**43.**

* * *

"Serenity!"

Joey Wheeler wasn't used to guests in his home. Well, home wasn't really the right word for it. Whatever it was, he'd lived in it since he could remember living anywhere; he'd lived here with his parents and his sister for a good many years, then just with his father for a period of time he liked to think of as his own personal Dark Ages. But the old man was dead now.

The place was his now, but he still didn't really think of it like home. It was just a place to sleep, really. So he didn't often have visitors. If he wanted to hang with Yugi or Tristan, he'd go over to _their _homes. It was more comfortable.

This place carried too many fucked-up memories.

Serenity Wheeler stepped into her childhood home for the first time in what had to be two or three years, and Joey couldn't think of what to say. The place wasn't exactly clean, and he hadn't been expecting her. She didn't seem to notice the mess, though. She wrapped her arms around her brother in a tight hug and said, "Hey, there, big brother. How've you been?"

Joey hugged her back and chuckled. "Been better, been worse. What about you?" He stepped back and raised an eyebrow. "What brings you back to this little corner o' hell?"

Serenity smiled, gave the blond a playful slap. "It's not _that _bad. Can I sit down?"

"Uh..." Joey all but lunged over to the couch and tossed the laundry (clean, but unfolded) onto the floor, unceremoniously gesturing for her to sit as if he were offering here a gem-studded throne. "Sure. There ya go."

He tossed himself onto the other end of the couch and leaned back. "Sorry. Place kinda...well, yeah. Haven't got around to cleaning up since..."

"Ever?"

Joey smirked. "Ha. Yeah, well. So, just here to visit? Escape from Ma?"

Serenity smiled. "That obvious, huh?"

"What's she doin' now?"

"Dating."

Joey's nose scrunched up. "Eugh."

"Mm-hm."

"Well, yer free to stay here, if ya want. Spare bedroom's still a'right. I haven't, uh...destroyed it yet."

"Thanks."

Joey turned to glance at the small television set up in one corner of the room. His eyes widened, and he scrambled to find the remote to turn the volume up. When he glanced back at his sister, he saw her looking at him strangely. She asked, "Since when have you been interested in Seto Kaiba?"

Joey shrugged. "First time I seen him on TV since..." He manufactured a look of sudden sadness, turned his eyes away, and wondered if he would be able to fake remorse. He stole a glance back at Serenity and saw the same sadness—_real _sadness—on her face.

"...Mokuba..." she whispered.

Joey nodded, grimaced, and turned back to the television.

Kaiba had worn a full black suit to his brother's funeral: black shirt, black tie, black jacket, black pants, black shoes. Somehow, Joey wasn't surprised to see him wearing stark white on his first public appearance since then. His hair was sculpted just so, in the style that he'd worn ever since Joey had first seen him. He remembered that at the funeral, it had looked disheveled.

Not so anymore.

Kaiba took great, sweeping strides up to the podium, and even though it was a recording, Joey could read something different in his eyes. He didn't look lost anymore. He didn't have that blank slate nothingness anymore.

He looked just as arrogant, just as angry, just as determined as he ever had.

And it all came through in his voice when he began to speak.

_"Most of you here know that fourteen days ago, a funeral for my brother Mokuba was held at Vinewood Terrace Cemetery. Most of you remember the eulogy that I presented, and I am sure that most of you hold me in contempt for that eulogy. I have not come here today to explain myself, but I _have _come here today to set the record straight on this matter. I am not taking questions. I am only here to make a statement."_

Joey couldn't help but smirk. That sounded just like Kaiba.

It seemed like things really had returned to normal.

_"Some two months ago, a serious threat to my brother's life made itself known to me. Several similar threats have been brought upon him in the past, and I have done all that was and is within my power to neutralize them. To the end of ensuring my brother's safety, I have done many things of which most people would not be proud. So it came to pass that I lied. Honesty means nothing if it does not help me keep Mokuba safe. You, all of you, those of you standing before me now and all others watching this in their homes, I have lied to you. I make no apology for that. It was necessary, and I would do it again in a heartbeat."_

"...What's he talking about?" Serenity asked.

Joey didn't reply. He was too busy trying to hide the beaming grin spreading on his face.

He felt like he understood Kaiba a little bit better.

_"In order that I might ascertain the identity of the latest would-be assassin who has targeted my brother for personal gain, I decided to trick him. I made it seem as though someone else had completed the task before him. Everything, from the nature of Mokuba's death, to the funeral, to the aftermath, was planned in order to accomplish this task. It was necessary to lie to you, so that I could be absolutely sure that this man—whose name yet eludes me but whose location is becoming clearer by the hour—would grow complacent. It seems that the plan did not go quite as expected, and so I come to you today."_

Kaiba turned, lifting out a hand behind him, and Joey could hear a multitude of gasps and shouts from the crowd. He heard Serenity give a short scream as Mokuba Kaiba stepped up next to his elder sibling, dressed in a suit identical to the one that had been destroyed on the night of his rebirth.

_"...My brother is alive. The ruse has proven ineffective as of this day, and so I deceive you no longer."_

Serenity was crying.

Joey was struggling not to laugh.

There was a long moment of stunned silence as Mokuba looked out at the throng of people in front of him, and then the applause started. Slow, slow, building and building like the crescendo of a symphony, until Joey could actually hear the people losing their minds with relief.

Mokuba's face was red, and his eyes looked wet. He took a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his face. Kaiba gave his trademark smirk. The ovation lasted for almost a full minute, until Kaiba finally raised a hand for silence.

It took another twenty seconds for the crowd to actually obey the silent command.

When all was silent, Kaiba spoke again.

_"I know that many of you, perhaps all of you, would like to hear Mokuba speak on this matter." _Mokuba stiffened; he looked terrified. Joey wasn't exactly an expert on reading people's faces but he knew abject terror when he saw it. He was far too familiar with it. _"Understand, however, that while my brother is not dead, he has been through a long, tiring, frightening ordeal as I and my personal staff work to uncover the name and face of the threat to him that remains among us. It is thus my decision that he be left out of the public eye. I would not have him out here today were it not immensely important. Do not expect to see either of us again, until this man has been brought to justice."_

He turned, and Mokuba turned with him (with a death-grip on Kaiba's right hand).

They left the stage without another word.

* * *

**44.**

* * *

"How long until the influx of emails and well-wishes crashes our servers?" Roland wondered aloud as he watched his employer enter the office, in a less than enthusiastic mood by the set of his jaw.

Seto sneered. "Not long, I'm sure," he muttered. "I suppose I should be grateful that this has been handled soon enough that those sheep won't start a riot, and break down the front gates of the estate with pitchforks and torches."

Roland chuckled. "Certainly would have been...interesting to see, though."

"Tch. Right. You'll forgive me if I don't feel put out for avoiding it. Where is my brother? Is he protected?"

"Copeland and Zika are looking after him for the moment. I believe he is testing the newest build of his personal project. Much has been improved since he disappeared. Would you like me to bring him here?"

Seto frowned thoughtfully. "...No. Let him be. He deserves the recreation. Make absolutely certain that someone is with him at all times, though. I'd go myself, but I haven't the time to spare. Go. I want _no _chance of danger catching a glimpse of him. Do you understand?"

Roland bowed. "Of course, Master Kaiba."

He left the room.

Seto sat, leaning back in his chair, brooding. He was beginning to shake off the haze of depression, and it was becoming easier and easier by the moment to focus. He cursed himself every time his traitorous mind turned back down those dark, dank paths that had led him nearly to his death. He could not allow them to hold him any longer. His mission, what he had thought to be his final act as a living man, had just grown in importance a thousand fold. He could no longer afford complacency, any more than he could afford doubt.

He could not afford anything that might stand in the way. Any thought, any idea, any inkling that would lead him down a course of action that could conceivably lead to harm, could not be given a single moment's worth of consideration.

He stared at the phone at one corner of his desk as he thought of this, and glared at it as if he could transfer all blame for everything onto the device itself. With an angry spasm, he snatched the headset and set it to his ear as he jabbed in a number so quickly that his finger looked like a flesh-and-blood needle in a sewing machine.

Two rings.

_"...Well, well, now this _is _a surprise. First little Mokuba, and now you. To what do I owe this honor, my friend? Don't tell me you've come to trust me."_

"Hardly, Mutou," Seto all but snarled. "My choices are growing slim. Given our...less than orthodox history, I have reason to believe that you have a way to determine the identity of the man responsible for Mokuba's..." he cleared his throat, "...problem."

_"Are you...no. Is the great Seto Kaiba, high warlord of Domino City's upper class, asking a lowly store clerk for assistance? Are you _truly _asking _me, _of all people, for help?"_

"You are no more a clerk than I am a circus performer, Mutou. Enough with the pretense. Will you assist me or not?"

_"My, my. Give an inch, take a mile. Have I not done enough for you?"_

"Answer the question. I am simply giving any avenue that may prove fruitful a chance. I will not let my brother die because I was too proud to make a choice that could have saved him. If you are stalling to see if I will offer to compensate you—"

_"Do not insult me. I know well the depths of your resources, and they do not interest me. You should know by now that the only compensation I hope for when I ask a question is an answer. I do not even care if the answer is honest. I learn well enough either way."_

"Fine. Then give an answer to _my _question. Will you...or not?"

There was a moment of infuriating silence that stretched into a full fifteen seconds, almost enough for Seto to slam the phone down and pretend Yugi Mutou no longer existed, before he received an answer.

_"...It would be quite a shame to have to attend dear young Mokuba's funeral a second time. Understand, however, that my reasons are my own. I do not do this for you. Do not attempt to ensnare me in your fox hunt, either. You will know my assistance when you see it."_

Yugi hung up.

After a few seconds, Seto followed suit.

And wondered if he had not just made a horrendous mistake.

* * *

**45.**

* * *

Yami hung up the phone, and almost immediately began dialing a number.

_Who are you calling? _Yugi asked.

Yami smirked. "You might say...a friend of mine," he murmured evasively. "After all, we are dealing with a man devious enough to outwit even the Great One himself. The...pillar of strength that is Seto Kaiba." He chuckled at the joke that Yugi didn't understand. "If we are to assist him in...quelling this threat, I think we must call in all the resources available to us. Like Kaiba himself has done. Don't you agree, _Aibou?"_

_ Anyone you call a friend, I don't trust. What are you plotting this time?_

"Come now, _Aibou. _Words hurt. You trust Joey, and Tristan, and Téa, do you not? They are my friends, as well as yours."

_Friends? Or chess pieces?_

Yami's smirk widened. "So pessimistic. It's not like you."

Yugi couldn't help but notice that his partner hadn't answered the question.

Yami leaned back against the wall. "You worry too much," he said. "Honestly, _Aibou, _when have my methods ever proved ineffective? It may be true that I am...unorthodox. But that is perhaps my greatest advantage. Put it from your mind. No harm will come to the Kaiba family, from me or from any other. I have...made a promise. A king does not forget his promises."

_Your people may have named you king, but you know just as well as I do that you never took that title seriously._

"I took it _very _seriously."

_Mm-hm. Sure you did._

Before Yami could reply, a voice came from the other line. _"Hello?"_

The gambler's eyes narrowed. "Oh. I'm quite sorry. Perhaps I have the wrong number? I was looking for...someone else."

* * *

**46.**

* * *

"How is it, sir?"

There weren't many times when anyone could honestly tell that Seto and Mokuba Kaiba were brothers. Their actions, their attitudes, their looks, none of them matched on the surface. There was only one subject, one industry, that brought out the Kaiba in Seto's heir.

Videogames.

The expression on Mokuba's face as he studied the flat-screen monitor in front of him was nearly identical to the one Seto wore on a daily basis. The gleam in his grey-violet eyes matched Seto's glare almost perfectly.

And when he spoke, it was with Seto's signature tone.

"The idea works out pretty well. I like how it looks. But I think it's a bit too easy. This is a boss fight, not a tutorial. See? Like right here, when it reaches down. It's too slow. There's too much time for me to dodge. See what happens if you cut the animation. Or speed it up. This thing is supposed to be fast."

"Anything else?"

"Maybe we should give it more resistances. Magic is too strong against it."

"Magic is its weakness, sir."

"I know, but with the right build, you can kill it with five, maybe six rotations. Look."

Roland Ackerman stood by the door. Vincent Zika, one of Mokuba's personal guards, stood nearer to the black-haired boy as he discussed his project. Travis Copeland, a new employee of the Kaiba Estate, stood with Roland.

"He takes this business seriously, doesn't he?" Travis mused.

Roland chuckled. "You should see his brother. Most people think beta testing is a privilege. With standards like Master Kaiba's, however, it's much more a punishment. People cry, curse, throw controllers everywhere. The first widespread test of the Duel Disk system was a veritable riot. We had to call in a SWAT team."

Travis shook his head in wonder. "Does it make you feel old, working for a company like this?"

"Every day."

"Ooh! What was that?" Mokuba asked, excited.

"That, sir, is what happens when you take too long to defeat the creature. We've taken to calling it the last stand. Each titan has a different type. They all spell death to all but the...luckiest players."

"...I _like_ that."

"Were you told about this plan?" Travis asked. "The funeral, I mean."

Roland shook his head. "No."

"Not even _you? _You're the master's right hand!"

"Young Master Mokuba is the master's right hand. Only _they_ knew about this. Our esteemed employer didn't even trust his own security to guard the little one while he searched. He hired mercenaries."

"Sounds like a risky plan, bringing in strangers."

"From what I understand, the amount he paid them was...nothing short of obscene."

"So you _have_ to beat them quick," Mokuba was saying, "or else you can't beat them at all. Better. But I still think it should be harder. Let's see what happens with the..."

"I wasn't sure what to think of him at first," Travis said. "Master Kaiba, I mean. I'd heard the stories, of course, about the times Mokuba had been kidnapped, and what the master did to save him. So of course there had to be _some _kind of bond between them. But...well, you know, it's kind of hard to see at first."

Roland nodded. "Yes. It is. Make no mistake, though. Master Kaiba puts forth every resource he has into ensuring his brother's safety. Nothing else matters to him _nearly _as much as that. Young Master Mokuba is more than the right hand of the Kaiba family. He's the heart of it. You saw the way Master Kaiba acted when we all thought he'd died."

Travis nodded. "I've never seen a man so close to death that could still stand on his own feet. I'm sure it would be even worse if Mokuba ever _did _die like that."

"I've been thinking of adding a special treasure, something rare, maybe a one-percent chance for each boss to drop it, you know? Maybe a weapon, or a piece of armor or...something like that."

"I'm not so sure," Roland murmured. "I'd never pegged Master Kaiba for an actor, but...after seeing him these past two weeks, I'm not sure the young master _didn't _die. Or almost. Perhaps he was...gravely ill."

"He looks healthy enough to me. I don't know if I've ever seen him so lively, and that's saying something."

"...Yes. But...I'm still not sure."

"Ooh! What if it's an item that unlocks a secret ending? Or a special character?"

"What character could we use, sir? We've made sure to use as many of the source material's characters as possible."

"Call the author. Maybe he has an idea."

"At once, sir."

Travis frowned. "I'm not sure what you're talking about, Roland."

Roland sighed and ran his hands through his hair.

"I'm not, either."

* * *

**47.**

* * *

"You have one chance to explain this to me."

"I don't know _how! _This is impossible!"

"Clearly it is not, or it would not _be."_

"I can't explain this! I stood there! I stood right over him and watched him die! You think I _wanted _to do that? But it had to be done! It took me _weeks_ before I could go through with it, but I _did!_ I shot the boy seven times! I made _absolutely sure _that he was dead!"

"...Which leads me to wonder how you managed to fail. I see the look in your eyes, and I am sure that you _believe _what you are telling me. But look at this, and tell me how it could _possibly _be that you did."

"I don't know! He's good with holograms, isn't he? Maybe he's using one of those!"

"And why, exactly, would Seto Kaiba go through such a meaningless charade? If he were desperate enough to resort to a _hologram_ of his brother for companionship, why would he go public with it? You know better than any of us how pathetically codependent those two are on each other. You want to tell me he wouldn't lock himself in his estate and damn the rest of us? Why run the considerable risk of being found out by holding a press conference?"

"I don't _know, _damn it! It's the best answer I can come up with."

"Do you know how many resources I've put into this crusade of yours? Do you know how much it cost me to ensure that you would not be found? I let you embark on this ridiculous mission of yours because you _swore _to me that you would succeed. Yet the boy lives. You have failed us. Tell me why I should trust you after this. Why should I not dispose of you here and now and cut my losses?"

"What...what if...what about magic? _We _use magic. Maybe Kaiba has someone working for him that could have—"

_"Don't..._be ridiculous. Resurrection is not a parlor trick to be conjured by any street magician for a child's allowance. Do you have _any _clue just how costly such magic would be? Even if you were right, and such a feat were still possible, I have been watching Seto Kaiba since his birth, _known_ ofhim for much longer, and he puts no more faith in magic than _I _put in _you."_

"Give me one more chance! Give me a week, just one week, and I'll have it done! I swear to you! I won't let anything ruin it this time! I'll make doubly sure! I'll...I'll...!"

"...I am going to regret this. I _already _regret it. But very well. You have three days. No longer. Now go. And if you fail again, do not bother coming back to me."

"Thank you! Thank you, sire! I won't fail you again!"

"...I'm sure. Get out of my sight."

* * *

**48.**

* * *

"Bocchan checked his email this afternoon. Last I saw, he was crying. Ah—but don't worry, Seto-sama. He was smiling, too."

Seto leaned back into his chair again, and flexed the fingers of his right hand. He let out a shaky breath. "It's no surprise. He's become the local media's new darling ever since Battle City. An instant sensation."

Akiko smirked knowingly. "You sound like you _want _to be disgusted, Seto-sama."

Seto couldn't quite hide the pride on his face, in his eyes, and eventually he mirrored his maid's smirk. "Perhaps. He's done well for himself. Where is he now? Is he still in his room?"

"Mister Zika tells me he's in _your _room, actually. He must still be scared. Have you had any luck finding the threat?"

Seto sighed. "No. I'll have to talk to him about this. I thought he'd outgrown this habit. The last time it happened, he was six years old."

Akiko's smirk softened into a sympathetic smile. "He needs you right now, Seto-sama."

"...Hm."

Seto stood, stepped around his desk, and strode out of the room. Akiko did not follow him. He wondered if he should tell his brother to sleep in his own room. One night was fine, two nights were tolerable, but it was nearing a full week now. Mokuba had to get used to sleeping in his own bed again.

A part of him, a distant part, argued. That part of him was just as comforted as Mokuba was by being near him. By being able to reach out and wipe a lock of hair out of his face, by reminding himself that he was there, that Mokuba was back home and that he was safe. But he knew that that part of him, given free reign, would only lead to irrevocable damage.

He could not let himself fail again.

He could not let himself fall prey to weakness again.

He made up his mind, as he reached his bedroom door. He would tell his brother to go back to his own room. Maybe he would sit at Mokuba's side until the boy fell asleep, but he would fall asleep under his own sheets and his own blanket.

Seto opened the door and stepped inside.

Mokuba lay huddled at one side of his brother's bed, back to the door. He looked as though he was trying to take up as little space as possible, scrunched into the fetal position. Seto walked around the bed to see his brother's face, and could tell at a glance that Mokuba was in the grips of a nightmare. His lips were moving, but the only sound that came out of his mouth was strangled whimpering.

Seto closed his eyes, ran a hand over his face, and sighed.

"...Damn it," he whispered under his breath.

He knelt down and reached out to touch the boy's shoulder.

"Mokuba..." he whispered gently. "Hey. Wake up, baby brother."

Grey-violet eyes snapped open wide, tinged with terror and wet with tears.

* * *

**49.**

* * *

Seto sat up in bed, legs crossed atop the blanket, one arm around Mokuba's shoulders as he stared at the wall.

He was still dressed in the black slacks and burgundy shirt that he'd put on that morning. He wore his socks, but his shoes had been discarded on the floor. Mokuba wore baggy shorts and a loose white t-shirt.

Tears were still drying on his face.

"Do you know," Seto said suddenly, "our parents didn't know what to name you?"

Seto never talked about the past. If there was one taboo topic in the Kaiba Estate, it was that. It was a law. If Seto himself did not bring up the subject, then no one was permitted to do it in his place. And so Mokuba had learned to pay close attention, to sear every word into his memory for all time, whenever Seto did.

Although it was past midnight, and he was growing tired again (in spite of the fear still gripping his insides in a vice), Mokuba was instantly wide awake. He looked up at his brother's face, and saw...vulnerability there.

"They didn't?" Mokuba prompted, wondering if Seto would continue with the thought or if he would pretend he hadn't said anything.

Seto shook his head. "No. Mother's second pregnancy was...a difficult one. The subject of a name did not come until her sixth month. We, Mother, Father and I, were eating dinner when she...looked up from her plate, dropped her fork, and said, 'A name.' Just like that. She looked horrified, as if she had betrayed you. 'The baby needs a name,' she said."

Seto cleared his throat.

"...Father was born in this country, but Mother moved here in her teens from Shiga. I think sometimes that she chose to marry Father simply because he was the first man who shared her heritage; he was the first man her family would accept." He scoffed, chuckled derisively. "Their insistence certainly came back to bite them."

"Why would that matter? How come they cared where Dad's family came from?"

"Don't ask me," Seto murmured. "I always thought it a ridiculous stipulation. But then, there is a reason I refuse to associate with Mother's family. In any case, that may be why the first name they came up with for you was Seiji. Read as, 'refined second.' I believe it was one of Mother's aunts who offered it. For a while, Mother felt obligated to use it. She often felt obligated to do as her family wished of her. She eventually refused, however, saying that it wouldn't be fair if our names sounded so similar. We each would lose our individuality, and it would seem as though we were part of a set. As if we were not fit to stand on our own."

The irony of this concept was not lost on Seto.

He did not voice it, however.

"It eventually came down to three," he said instead. "Maro, Makoto, and of course, Mokuba."

The young Kaiba smiled.

Seto smiled as well. "...It was eventually decided that there was only one way to settle the debate. They came to me. They said that since they had already done their part in welcoming you into the world, it was time for me to do mine. They gave you life. It was up to me, they said, to give you a name."

Mokuba stared at his brother. "Niisama...you...?"

"It took me nearly a month to finally come to a decision," Seto continued. "It seems obvious now, but at the time I had no idea which of the three would be best for you. I knew that I had to make the right choice, though. I knew that as simple as it seemed on the surface, this would be the most important decision I would ever make. It was in my hands to decide something that would define you as a person, for the entirety of your life. I had to be sure. I had to be right."

Mokuba looked as though the greatest honor on the face of the planet had just been bestowed upon him. Seto may as well have told him that they were royalty, or that God Himself had blessed them both. He looked ready to cry again.

A soft, subtle smile was still on Seto's face.

"When I finally told Mother and Father my decision...they looked at each other, and they said, 'That's it. There's the proof. Our boy's a genius.'"

Mokuba did not respond for almost a full minute. He seemed not to want to break the spell. Seto looked peaceful, contented, and he didn't want to spoil the moment. He leaned against his brother and thought that he shouldn't be surprised.

Seto had given him everything else.

Why _not_ his name?

The last tendrils of his nightmare left Mokuba's mind.

He very nearly fell asleep.

Until...

"A touching story. Unfortunately, it's not going to have a happy ending."

* * *

**END.**

* * *

_**Those who have read George R.R. Martin's "A Song of Ice and Fire" series may recognize a touch of Tyrion Lannister and/or Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish in my interpretation of Yami. This was entirely coincidental, as I had not read the series before writing this piece, which is where this particular Yami was born. Nonetheless, the resemblance is uncanny to me. Further, any who have read the manga "Death Note" might recognize the back-and-forth of Yami and Seto in the interactions of Light Yagami and L. Friends, but enemies. Hopeless enemies.**_

_** As you can see, the real antagonist rears its head this time. The identity is unknown right now, but all will be answered in the next, final, installment of the story. The road's nearing its destination, folks, and it…may be somewhat surprising.**_

_** At least, it was to me.**_

_** Take care, all.**_

_** See you next time.**_


	6. The Forgotten King

_**Almost two years ago, I put up the first chapter of this story. It makes me shudder to think it's been that long, especially considering that it's a rather simple premise. I wrote "Twist of Fate" in a few months. So why did this spiritual successor take so much longer?**_

_**In short: standards. I have higher standards for myself now, and I hope that those standards have proven to be entertaining to you, the audience. For those who've stuck with this one since its beginning last February, thanks for hanging in there. I hope the ending satisfies. And for those new readers, who come across this piece of work in the future, thanks for stopping by. I hope the experience was worth the time.**_

_**Enjoy.**_

* * *

**FINAL PART:  
****The Forgotten King**

* * *

**50.**

* * *

Seto's expression did not change suddenly.

It slowly, slowly shifted to concrete neutrality, and only then did he speak, when his voice, too, was completely free of any emotion. He said, "...I shouldn't be surprised. I wondered when you would make a move. Tell me...what do _you _think are your chances of getting out of this house alive?"

A dark chuckle. Filled to the brim with narcissistic confidence.

"Don't flatter yourself. Your security couldn't stop me. You won't, either."

"Fascinating. And how did you come to that conclusion?"

He could feel Mokuba pressed up against him, shaking slightly. He patted the boy's shoulder and shifted himself so that his arms were free. His muscles were coiling, preparing to spring. His mind had shut off. Thinking was no longer necessary.

This was the moment.

This was the test.

This...was the end.

He felt something being pressed into his left hand. Seto blinked, surprised, as he realized that the semi-automatic pistol he kept hidden under his pillow was now in his grip. He smiled. Mokuba had just solved the most important problem for him.

_That's my boy. Good job._

"You aren't prepared to handle a threat like me," said the voice of Seto's personal oblivion.

He felt his lips spread into a savage grin.

"Indeed," Seto hissed. "After all, no one else has managed to come even close to where you are." He moved his legs up beneath him, and knelt forward. "Who else has come so close to my brother, who else has come so far in the eternal quest to break me? You've truly managed the...near impossible."

"Trying to stall, are you? Enough of this. I'm not here to play games."

Seto shifted once more, and his feet landed with a whisper onto the floor. He stood tall, and watched as a figure stepped in from the doorway. His eyes widened as he realized he didn't recognize the man in front of him. Nor, he realized, had he recognized the voice.

And then he remembered that it didn't matter.

"Good," Seto said. "Neither am I."

He lifted his weapon and fired.

The sound echoed in his ears, sent sharp little bolts of pain arcing through his head. His opponent, such as it was, stared stupidly at him. Seto frowned. There was no pain in this man's face. There was no bleeding. He _knew _he'd hit. A Kaiba did not miss. And yet, here this man stood, completely unconcerned.

"More of this goddamned magic," Seto all but snarled.

The man was nonplussed for some reason. He looked distracted. Confused. Seto didn't question it. He fired again. Again. Both kneecaps should have exploded, but the man remained standing. There wasn't the faintest sign that Seto had done anything. What was this? A _vision? _A hallucination?

"Who are you?" Seto demanded. "Apparently I'm not dealing with a human being, but I _am _dealing with _sentience. _What are you doing? What is your goal? And why does it involve murdering children?"

Seto didn't need to look back at Mokuba to know that he was horrified. This was the man who had killed him. The last face he would have ever seen, if not for Yugi goddamned Mutou.

As if in slow-motion, the man finally showed a reaction. It was like spoken language went through a filtering process in this person's mind, as if it were some species of machine with an advanced—but slow—speech recognition component.

"You're one to talk...about murdering children...Kaiba-shachou."

Seto sighed. "Wonderful. Vengeance. I might have known. Fine. Lay your grievance, then. Try to talk your way out of this. I'm curious how you've managed to justify your actions."

The man had dark red hair, cut halfway down his neck and spread out so that his head looked like a mushroom with bangs. In spite of the ridiculous haircut, however, the man's grey eyes were alight with murderous intent. This was not a man who would feel remorse for murder. Not in the slightest.

This was a killer. Plain and simple.

He stepped forward again, closer to Seto. A long, sleeveless, light grey trench coat whispered about his shins. He wore pure black underneath, and nestled in the deep shadows of earliest morning he looked as though his head, and his coat, were the only parts of him with any substance.

If there _was _any substance at all.

"You...rechristened your company, didn't you, Kaiba-shachou?" the man asked. His voice was still slow. "The...Kaiba Electronic Gaming Corporation. Do you recall what it was called when your predecessor ran it?"

Seto smirked bitterly. _"Kaiba Kabushiki-gaisha."_

"And do you recall what that company _made _when your predecessor ran it?"

"Military technology. Weaponry. Any conceivable technology deemed necessary for war. You clearly know the answers to these questions you're posing, so do get on with it. I'm not interested in rehashing my corporation's history."

The man grinned. "Do you know, Kaiba-shachou, just how many lives your predecessor's technology stole from this planet? Do you know the damage your predecessor's weapons caused us all? Not just this city, not just this country, but the world at large? Do you know what your corporation took from _me?"_

Seto resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Take a wild guess as to whether or not I _care _what my corporation 'took' from you."

"You'll care. By the time the sun rises on this day, you will care a great deal."

Seto hefted the apparition's gun, looking at it for a moment, before shaking his head. "You're all the same. Every solitary one of you. I'm beginning to wonder if I shouldn't start charging for the privilege of turning my brother into a target. None of you ever bother to turn your pointless, prating vengeance upon me. That would make too much _sense."_

"There is a simple reason for that, Kaiba-shachou," the man said. "It _works."_

"Yes, yes, and aren't you lucky to know firsthand the proof of that? Good work. I'll mail out a medal for you, so you can hang it on your wall and look at it every morning. You can show it to future generations and say, 'Look there, that's the proof that I am a spineless waste of plasma.' Are you _done?"_

It was working. The man's anger was rising. His attention was not on Mokuba. The young Kaiba had slipped off of his brother's bed and was huddled behind it. Seto could just barely see his hair, and a sliver of his forehead, in his peripheral vision.

"Cocky. Confident. As expected from you."

"So pleased that I met your expectations."

"But as I said..."

Seto blinked. Stared.

A symbol began to etch itself into the man's forehead, framed by his dried-blood-red hair. It glowed, a bright, otherworldly, sickly green that was mirrored in the man's wide, feverish eyes: a unicursal hexagram, set within a circle of runes. The very air in the room thickened in the light of that damnable insignia. It was becoming difficult to breathe.

The man lifted a hand, and gestured almost dismissively in Mokuba's direction.

Seto felt his body tighten, his muscles sang with sudden pain. He began to move, slowly, sluggishly, like a puppet on old strings. Slowly, woodenly, around the foot of his bed. Slowly, involuntarily, toward Mokuba.

Seto watched in horror as his right hand reached out to grip Mokuba by the hair. His left hand pressed his weapon against the boy's forehead.

Seto tried to speak.

His body refused to heed him.

His head turned, and he was staring straight into his brother's eyes.

The man was chuckling again.

"...You aren't prepared for a threat like me."

* * *

**51.**

* * *

No.

Never.

He refused.

He had been forced to admit the truth of too many false beliefs. He had been forced to shift his belief systems too much. That magic could defy death, he could understand. That it could _bring _death, he could understand. That magic _existed, _he could understand.

But he could not, and _would _not, understand this.

He was hallucinating. This wasn't happening.

It wasn't.

It _wasn't!_

It was late. He'd fallen asleep. This was a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare. No one could have gotten into his home, into his sanctuary, this easily. No one could still stand after taking a bullet to each knee. No one could just wave their _fucking _hand and make him...and make him...

_No!_

His eyes were fixed on Mokuba, but they weren't fixed of _his _volition. His right hand had hold of the boy's hair, but not on _his_ command. His left hand held a gun to the boy's head, but not...not..._damn it, _what in hell _was_ this?

He couldn't think. He couldn't _move. _He had no control over his own limbs, he couldn't drop the gun, he couldn't let go of his brother's hair, he couldn't back up, he couldn't even look at the son of a bitch responsible! He was a living, breathing statue. He could feel his heart beating, could feel his blood pumping, he could feel his stomach churning.

But his limbs were ghosts. Poltergeists. They no longer existed.

They were no longer his.

He tried to speak. He strained to _force _himself to speak. His lips would not move.

He was...he was...

"...How does it feel, Kaiba-shachou?" asked the apparition. "What's it like, being completely helpless? What's it like knowing that your every move, your every word, your every _thought _is under someone else's control?"

Bullshit.

His thoughts weren't being controlled.

The apparition was lying. The apparition was overestimating its own strength.

He felt his lips begin to move. He heard his voice. He knew he was speaking.

The words were not—

"This is retribution," Seto heard himself say. "This is justice. This is what happens when the guilty are caught by the righteous. You will be taken. You will be sacrificed. It is necessary. Your life was taken once, and it will be taken again. So that I will understand the true meaning of consequence. The true meaning of loss."

He could tell that Mokuba was hurting, that his grip on the boy's hair was too tight, but he couldn't do anything about it. For the first time in his life, he was completely unable to comfort his brother.

This...this couldn't be.

It just _couldn't._

Mokuba was crying. Again, he was crying, and again, Seto was the reason for it.

This couldn't be true.

Mokuba was scared.

He tried to close his eyes, tried to block out the sight in front of him, but he couldn't. He couldn't even blink. His eyes were beginning to itch. His breathing quickened. He felt cold. He felt sore. Mokuba was scared and hurting and he felt helpless.

This wasn't happening.

The apparition was smirking, Seto could see him in his peripheral vision, and the apparition's eyes were glowing, mirroring the sick green of the symbol on his forehead, and this wasn't happening. The symbol looked like it was erupting out of the apparition's flesh, and this wasn't real. The hexagram was the source of all this, he knew it, and this wasn't _fucking _possible.

Goddamn it.

God damn it all.

_This...this can't...it can't be...damn...motherfu—_

* * *

**52.**

* * *

Mokuba was not like his brother.

They were fundamentally opposed, and it was nearly impossible to understand how they got along as well as they did. Seto had learned a long time ago how to hide his emotions, how to make his face into a mask that showed nothing at all. Mokuba had not.

Sometimes, in the rarest of rare occasions, Mokuba was able to put on such a mask.

But he couldn't summon it at will.

And right now, as one of his brother's hands pulled out his hair and the other held a gun to his forehead, every emotion the young Kaiba had ever felt was playing across his face like an abstract play on a flesh-and-blood stage.

He heard Seto speak, but he could tell that it wasn't his voice. It _was _his voice, but the words weren't his, and that made all the difference in the world. It didn't sound like him, even though it did. Mokuba knew who was actually saying those words, he could hear the man who killed him in them. He could _feel _the man who killed him in them, and it felt like insects burrowing through him.

To say that he was scared was so understated that it felt like the _opposite _of the truth, like calling the ocean dry. He didn't know _what _he really was, there wasn't a word for it. There wasn't a word for it in any language, least of all his. But he knew that if he felt it for much longer it would kill him.

Just like the gun would kill him. The gun that belonged to his brother but was actually the same gun that had killed him the first time. The gun that had propelled seven bits of metal into his body and let his blood run from him like people screaming and biting and crawling all over themselves to escape a burning building.

Except his body wasn't burning this time.

It was freezing.

Mokuba wasn't an atheist, not like Seto. Mokuba believed in God, or at least he believed there was _something _out there more powerful than people. But as he stared up into his Niisama's eyes, the only part of him that wasn't being controlled by the murderer with the red hair, the only part of him that was honest anymore, Mokuba Yagami Kaiba renounced that higher power, tossed it aside like so much rotting garbage, and decided that if he was going to die today, if he was going to die _again, _then he was going to blame the _man _responsible. No safety nets. No passing the buck.

God had nothing to do with it. God had no hand in this.

Tonight, there was no God.

It was all _him._

* * *

**53.**

* * *

There were certain inalienable truths when it came to the Kaiba brothers.

One of the most clear-cut, one of the most fundamental, was that Seto Kaiba's dedication, indeed devotion, to his position as Big Brother was irrefutable. It was untouchable. It was the closest thing to sacred that he held anymore.

Mokuba held a similar devotion to _his _position as Little Brother, but right now it was the former being twisted. Sabotaged. Defaced and blasphemed. The spirit who called itself Yami—who had made Seto Kaiba's psychology into a pet research project—watched from the corner of the room, where he had been lying in wait (and wasn't it _magnificent _that Kaiba hadn't ever noticed?) as his rival grabbed young Mokuba by the hair and pushed a weapon against his head.

The ancient king had two moods: swaggering confidence and abject fury. A switch flipped in Yami's head, for the first time in centuries. His eyes gleamed like the gold of the puzzle chained to his neck. He stepped forward, into the meager light, not as a spirit but as a king.

As a god.

The first to react was the target. The second was Mokuba. Kaiba did not move.

"Release him," Yami commanded.

The target stared at him. "Who the _hell—"_

Yami clenched a fist and flung his arm forward. A drawer from Kaiba's desk sailed through the air and exploded into a shower of splinters and office supplies about the target's head. The target made no real reaction.

"You're not the only one with tricks up his sleeve," Yami snarled, "and you're not the only one with a mean streak. I'd warn you not to test me, but I'm not in a merciful mood tonight. So if you want even a passable chance that your death will be pain_less, _release him. Now."

The target smirked. "Cute trick." The target made a hand gesture that was clearly meant to retaliate. Nothing happened. The target blinked. Stared again. The target's eyes narrowed.

Normally, Yami would have smirked.

His face was fixed in concrete now.

"So...you've decided to make an enemy of me. I'm not surprised. Nor am I disappointed."

Yami turned his attention to the Kaibas, concentrating. He lifted up a fist, and slowly uncurled it. Kaiba shook as if electrocuted, then slumped forward. One hand released Mokuba's hair, the other threw the gun across the room. Kaiba held his brother close as if certain his body would refuse to answer his commands again at any moment.

Yami could hear him whispering to the boy. He caught, "...last words..." and "...proud of you..." and "...love..." before turning his attention back to the matter at hand.

The target lost its smirk. "So..._you're _the one who resurrected him."

Yami sighed. "Your mind works about as quickly as I had expected."

Narrowed eyes. "Who are you?"

Yami gestured to his face, and his hair, as if to say, _Honestly?_

Finally, recognition.

"...Mutou."

Yami did not grace the target with a direct response. Instead, he declared, "You may have power, but it is not your own. You are an underling. You speak of justice and retribution, you speak of righteousness. Your words ring hollow. You _borrow _from one with true power. I feel it in you. You have no more control over your own tricks than a slave over his master's horse."

The target was growing angry.

Yami was already there.

"Don't lecture me. You don't know the half of it."

"Neither do you."

"Don't play word games with me, Mutou!"

"Conversation itself is a word game. Do not blame me if you haven't the mental aptitude to play it against me."

"I know what you're doing! You're trying to piss me off! You're trying to make me forget!" The target whirled on Kaiba, still holding tight to his brother and shaking violently. The target thrust out an open palm, and the symbol on his forehead brightened.

Yami heard Kaiba's words, soft and comforting, stop immediately.

Choked off.

"I'm here for a reason!" the target shrieked. "You won't stop me again!"

Mokuba's face, barely visible, made it all too clear that he couldn't breathe.

Yami tossed his head back and rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

He touched the Millennium Puzzle with the fingertips of both hands.

An eye, wrought of purest golden light, appeared on the gambler's forehead; the antithesis of the target's hexagram. The gods had descended. Horus was with him. Horus was become him, and Mayet's feather fluttered in the air.

The Great Eye fixed upon the target, and would know its name.

"The question has been asked of this one," said the vessel of the Fourth Dynasty, "and it would be asked of you. What are you called, he who would slaughter the innocent? What are you called, heretic who would visit upon the innocent the crimes set upon you?"

"I take no orders from you!"

_**WHAT ARE YOU CALLED, YOU WHO WOULD DEFY ME?**_

The words boomed and clashed like thunder given a language, and it seemed like the body of Yugi Mutou would not contain the raw power coursing through it. This was not Yami, the spirit of the Millennium Puzzle.

This was not the voice of Yami, the gambler, the avenger, the protector.

This was the voice of Atemhotep. The Forgotten King.

The peasant did not learn. It raised its head high, crossed its arms. It said, haughtily, indignantly, "...My name is Amelda. And I serve a power ten times stronger than you could ever imagine. Save your parlor tricks for someone they'll work on, Mutou."

No smirk crossed the king's face.

The king's brows furrowed, and the king's eyes narrowed.

"You serve a delusion. There is no power but mine. There is no judgment but mine. There is no vengeance but mine. The name to which you attach your fantasy of power does not concern me. You are ended here, Amelda."

Amelda laughed.

The king lifted his right hand, and snapped his middle finger against his thumb.

The laughter ceased immediately, as the condemned man fell to his knees, hacking and choking.

* * *

**54.**

* * *

The king turned his attention to his only living equal.

"That is..." he murmured, "...unless your target elects...clemency."

Kaiba drew in a slow, steady breath. He removed himself from his small sibling's desperate embrace and rose to his feet. Amelda stared at him, unable to move. The king raised an eyebrow. The magic of the hexagram was stronger than anticipated. Amelda could breathe again already.

"Clemency," Kaiba spat, as if the word were a physical presence in his mouth, and he found it disgusting. He turned to glance at the gun across the room, then back to the target. The king waited. "I will have the answer to a question. _What..._has my brother...done to you?"

The target sneered. "Nothing."

"So you admit that. Abjectly _fascinating. _So then, hypocrite, I will know...why him?"

"You know precisely _why him_, Kaiba-shachou," the target snarled.

"You have a ridiculously inflated sense of your own importance," Kaiba shot back, "if you honestly think I know who in_ fucking hell _you are. Answer...the _god__damned_...question."

"...Fine. You want to know who I am? I'll tell you. I'm a survivor. I'm a child soldier, I'm _leftovers. _I'm a victim of your father's god-cursed crusade! Your corporation made the weapons that destroyed my home!"

_"My _corporation made nothing of the kind," Kaiba said. "If your problem is with my predecessor, then I highly suggest you wait in line like everyone else. I should tell you not to pass the sins of the father to the son, but then you wouldn't listen, would you? No, you _twice _removed yourself from your own vengeance, didn't you?"

"You think I _wanted_ to kill the boy. Tch. Typical."

"You damn well _better _have wanted to kill my brother!"

The venom in Kaiba's voice was palpable, a sentience of the darkest order. The expression on his face made Amelda's anger seem like that of a spoiled child in the middle of a tantrum. The king watched as realization dawned on his face.

The realization that he had made an enemy out of the _wrong _person.

"...What...did you just—"

"I said you _damned well better _have wanted to kill him!" Kaiba all but screamed. "If you _dare _try to turn yourself into a martyr over the _murder _of an innocent child, _my _innocent child, I swear by all that's holy _I will __rip you apart!"_

Mokuba flinched away from his brother, scared of the murderous glint in his eyes. The king didn't much blame the boy; he had only recently escaped death, been pulled back from it, and here death was again, standing before him in slacks and a button-down shirt. Kaiba did not retrieve his weapon; he didn't need it. Kaiba _was _a weapon.

There were times when the king wondered if Kaiba's affection for his brother might not be just another mask, just another game. But then there were times like this, when every mask was torn down by that most primal of emotions, and the truth made itself all too obvious.

Not fear.

Anger.

Fury like this could only be bred from hate. And hate like this could only be bred from love. Kaiba was quite literally wearing his heart on his sleeve, and it was seething.

The king approved.

The target did not cower. Amelda met Kaiba's challenge with his head held high. "You just don't ge—"

"Finish. That sentence. I fucking _dare_ you."

"That's right! Keep deflecting! Keep ignoring the blood on _your _hands! How many of those weapons did you design? Hm? You want to tell me your father didn't bring his prized little heir into the _family business? _How many, Kaiba-shachou? How many of those goddamned death machines did _you_ bring into the world?"

"Two," Kaiba replied flatly. The king raised an eyebrow. Mokuba looked like he _wanted _to be surprised. "So that is what this is about. Is my brother the only one called to the chopping block for that? Or is your idiotic zealotry at least _consistent?"_

"Your brother...is a part of this, whether you like it or not. Contrary to what you might believe, I don't _want _to kill the boy any more than you would."

"And I have every reason to believe you."

"You _do _have every reason to believe me. I do not lie." The target looked over at Mokuba, who scrambled backward as if expecting to die just from looking at him.. "Tell him. I did not want to do this to you. I still do not. You know the truth, Mokuba."

"Don't speak to him!" Kaiba commanded. "You have no right to speak to him, you have no right to _look _at him!"

"Mokuba...tell him."

"Say his name again and I'll rip out your tongue and hang you with it!"

The target smirked. "Such anger, Kaiba-shachou. Is it any wonder why people target your brother? You make it so pathetically obvious."

"Don't patronize me, you overgrown maggot. I don't—"

"Why...are you here, Amelda."

The king's voice, backed by the gods, cut Kaiba short.

Amelda glared. "You know why."

_"I_ know everything. Do _you _know why you are here? Can you put words to it?"

Amelda sneered.

"...Miruko."

* * *

**55.**

* * *

Kaiba didn't bother to ask.

He simply crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. He almost looked like his usual self; he almost looked like he was in a normal mood, casually irate and mutely disgusted. The rage was still there, but it was quiet now. Simmering.

The switch was so sudden that the target flinched.

The king heard Mokuba, breathing quickly, and glanced at him. The boy was trying to take up as little space as possible, curled in the fetal position and leaning against his brother's leg. Kaiba had instinctively stepped in front of him.

The king let out a resentful breath and said, "This is clearly the point at which you deliver the speech you have been planning ever since you started on this crusade. Tell us, peasant, who Miruko is."

"Miruko..._was..._my brother." The target seemed to have regained its composure, and some measure of confidence. "You're not the only one who would give his life to see his family again, Kaiba-shachou. Apparently you _are _the only one with the _option, _though."

The target glared at the king.

"This one," said the king, gesturing at Kaiba, "for what it is worth, has earned my favor. His brother, too, has earned my favor. _You, _and yours, have not. Nor are you making progress in changing that."

The target scoffed. "I don't care. It happened, that's all that matters. Somehow, some way, you brought Kaiba-shachou's beloved little mascot back, and that means there's hope for Miru."

The king raised an eyebrow. "Is that right? And how is it that you _know _that? What if my magic did not bring the young one _back, _but simply thwarted _you? _Am I correct in assuming that you left the boy to die, in order not to be caught? How can you be certain that my intervention did not occur _then?"_

The target barked a laugh, but it sounded forced. The king could see fear in the target's eyes. Uncertainty.

Perfect.

"I've heard enough of this," Kaiba spat.

"Oh, and _you're_ so high and mighty?" the target demanded. "You have the right to look down on _my _decisions, is that right? And what did _you _do, as soon as _your _brother was taken from you? Huh? You went _straight _on the warpath, didn't you? _Didn't you?"_

Kaiba shook his head. _"I _sought out the one _responsible _for the crime."

"And I _didn't? _Aha, I see, so you _didn't _take part in your father's business, then?"

"Whatever blood was on my hands, I have paid for it. You _still _seem intent to ignore the fact that, even if I _were _directly responsible for however your brother died, you did _not _target _me."_

"Your father killed innocents. My brother had no part in that damned war, and yet _he _died."

"And your _brother _has my sympathy."

"Don't make me laugh. You don't _have _sympathy."

"It has never been my intention to make you laugh, and I hardly care about whatever conclusions you have to share in regard to my personality. I've heard enough. You've told me all that I need to know. You've told me _more _than I need to know."

"Well, isn't that fantastic?"

"Confident to the end. Commendable. Disgusting, but commendable. I'll be sure to put in a good word for you at your funeral."

"Confident. Right. Because _you _have every reason to be confident, right? Now that your pet magician is here to watch your—"

The target suddenly started to choke again, as the king turned his eyes away and gave the slightest of grimaces. "I agree with Kaiba," he murmured softly. "You have said enough, Amelda. Something you must understand: the only reason your heart is beating at all is to satisfy our collective curiosity as to your motivation."

"F-Fine! Then...kill..._kill me!"_

The king flipped a hand, and Kaiba's weapon flew into it. He eyed it critically. He knew little about firearms, just enough to know that they were entirely too complex for his tastes. Far too many chances for malfunction. For a weapon, meant for protection, it seemed entirely too counter-intuitive. However, it was simple enough to determine that Kaiba kept his personal...piece, he believed was the proper terminology, in prime condition. He glanced at Kaiba. "If you are certain that you _have _heard enough, then the deed is yours to complete. The gods will not deprive you of it."

"The gods," Kaiba muttered. "The same gods that let this waste of space kill my brother to begin with? How magnanimous of them."

The king shrugged. "If it eases your mind, recall that these same gods are currently _protecting _your brother. And you, for that matter. These same gods delivered the knowledge to me which is responsible for the fact that your brother is sitting behind you right now. I do not pretend to advocate their every decision. Truthfully, I think that your belief system has its merits. Many of them. However, that matters little. Take the task, if you will have it."

Kaiba locked eyes with the king for a long moment before finally taking the gun.

"Do you know why I own this?" Kaiba asked, and it seemed like a general question, not aimed at the king or Amelda, nor even Mokuba. The king obliged him, however, and shook his head. "To protect my brother. I trust in my own skills, my own body, more than enough to protect myself without it. But I trust _nothing _but the most efficient, the absolute _best,_ option when the subject at hand is Mokuba. My own pride means nothing compared to his welfare."

The king offered the ghost of a smile.

He nodded.

"My pride," Kaiba continued, as he lifted the gun in his hand, "tells me that this man is far too pathetic. I would soil that pride, sully my own reputation, by falling to his level and using this gun to kill him."

The ghost gained a body as a grin spread on the king's face. "Is that so, Kaiba?"

"Oh, it is," Kaiba replied in a dark voice. "It certainly is. I have earned a reputation for being heartless, for being willing to kill. That willingness has always stopped me from needing to prove it. But the truth of the matter is that most of the people to whom I have extended that threat have been so disgusting that I likely would have refused to kill them even given the perfect circumstances."

Kaiba turned to the target. "My pride would refuse to bring about your death."

The target's eyes widened.

Kaiba aimed.

"Mokuba's welfare demands it."

* * *

**56.**

* * *

The will of the gods was served. Amelda folded in upon himself as the room was filled with thunder.

* * *

**57.**

* * *

"I find it rather unlikely that everyone on this estate would remain asleep through so many gunshots," Seto muttered as he and Yugi stepped into the ground floor parlor. "I suppose _you_ had something to do with that."

Yugi shrugged. "What can I say? It seemed fitting that he should have no audience. After all, what was he looking for, if not attention? And what better way to prove his ultimate failure than by denying it to him?"

Seto frowned. "Hn."

"I'm surprised at you, Kaiba," Yugi said. "Leaving your brother alone after such a frightful night? Surely he wants his Niisama. Who are we to deprive him of that?"

Seto ran his right hand through his hair. "Given the choice, I assure you that I prefer Mokuba's company to yours, Mutou. However, before I can lay this matter to rest, I must know one thing, and that requires further interaction."

"Well, it must be important, then. What is this information you wish from me?"

Yugi stood in the center of the room, arms crossed over his chest. He looked rather gleeful, as if he had been expecting this exchange from the beginning, and was quite pleased that it had finally come to pass. If forced to guess, Seto would have said that the man already knew the question he was going to ask. Yugi Mutou always seemed to know the questions people were going to ask him.

It was a part of his favorite game of all.

Seto sighed, held his hands out, and said, "Why?"

Yugi chuckled. "Aha. Yes, the ultimate inquiry. Such power in a single word. It defines everything, doesn't it? It defines us. It defines our minds, it defines..." He made a gesture as if to encompass everything around him. As if to indicate the world itself.

"Yes..." Seto murmured, scowling.

Yugi cleared his throat. "Very well. I will tell you. I did not lie to our dear...guest. You _have _earned my favor, Kaiba, and dearest Mokuba has done the same. I doubt you find much pleasure or pride in the fact, but understand, it means a great deal to me, and especially to the gods I serve. For your...performance tonight, I owe you at least an honest answer."

"Performance."

Yugi's grin widened. "Oh, yes. You have done holy work tonight, Seto-chan."

Seto's face gave a violent spasm at the sound of the nickname. He said nothing.

"The answer is simple. The answer to everything is simple. The answer is...justice."

Seto raised an eyebrow. "Elaborate."

"Amelda was a disservice. Entirely, without question. You may wonder, Kaiba, as to the purpose of my existence. It is that: justice. I live now, several thousand years past my mortal lifetime, to serve justice. To serve Mayet, and to balance her scales."

"You expect me to believe that your motives were that simple."

"In all honesty, Kaiba, I have long since stopped _expecting_ you to believe anything I say. It is a great deal of the reason why I've come to enjoy your company so much."

Seto smirked, and it felt natural for the first time in what felt like an eternity. "I have been under the impression for a long while now that you were smarter than you let on, Mutou."

"The same can be said of you, my friend."

Seto ignored that. "You mention only...Amelda." The sound of the man's name sent a shock of anger through his mind, and it brought the taste of blood to his mouth. He grimaced and turned his eyes away, seeking some kind of refuge in the shadows of the parlor. After only a few seconds, he turned his attention back to Yugi.

"I mention Amelda because my mission _was _Amelda. And you have assisted me in carrying out that mission. For that I commend you."

"Your...mission. So then, Mokuba...?"

Yugi shrugged. "A means to an end."

"You brought my brother back from the dead so that his killer would reveal himself?"

"More or less."

Seto blinked, stared, looked halfway between throwing a fist at the gambler and bursting out laughing. He tossed his head back and decided on a scoff of borderline disbelief. "The saddest part is, I believe you. I honestly fucking believe you."

Yugi turned toward the door. "You two may have my favor, Kaiba. I will never deny that. But you seriously overestimate that favor if you believe I would have brought back the youngling simply to help. The will of the gods is not so simply and superficially countermanded."

Seto hung his head low, hands on his hips, and looked up at his rival through his thick chestnut hair. Sighing heavily, he held out his right hand.

"...Thank you."

Yugi did not take the offered hand. He bowed deeply at the waist.

"You are most welcome."

He turned, and stepped toward the door.

He stopped.

"While we are on the subject, however..." Yugi said slowly, hauntingly. He turned his head to glance back at Seto. "...Do know this: the ritual that has given you back your reason to live cannot be used again. This is your final chance. So sharpen up."

Seto closed his eyes, and nodded.

"I expected that."

When he opened his eyes again, Yugi Mutou was gone.

* * *

**58.**

* * *

"Is it...is it over?"

Mokuba Kaiba was a strong boy. He was brave, he was smart, he was resilient. In the ten years they had been together, Seto had only seen him look honestly vulnerable a handful of times. This was one of those times.

Considering the fact that he'd just seen his idol kill a man, it wasn't really a surprise.

Seto wanted to give him a comforting answer, but found as he considered the question that he couldn't. He drew in a deep breath and said, "...I don't think that it will ever be over, Mokuba." He glanced at his young sibling and gave a smirk. "But I'm prepared this time. We both are."

Surprisingly, Mokuba smiled. Some of the fear left his face. "...Yes, Niisama."

Seto sat down at the chair in the corner of the room, but this time he didn't lapse into a depressive trance. His eyes were bright. "That's my boy."

Mokuba sat on his brother's bed, legs pulled up against his chest. For some reason, he said, "You know...I think he was...telling the truth. I don't think...he wanted to do it."

Seto leaned his head back and looked up at the ceiling. "That doesn't excuse him. It makes his actions all the more disgusting. The only type of person I hate more than a man who wants to kill children is a man who doesn't, but kills them anyway."

"Maybe someone forced him to do it."

"You heard him, Mokuba. No one forced that maggot to do anything." Seto turned his eyes to his brother. "If you can find it in yourself to forgive him, Mokuba, then please, forgive him. I'll commend you, and I'll be proud of you for it. But don't force it."

"Okay." The boy's face fell. He looked up suddenly. "What are we going to do now? We can't tell people what happened to him, can we? We can't say you killed him. People might...they might..."

Seto shrugged. "It will be handled. Compared to neutralizing the threat in the first place, this part is hardly worth thinking about. What _I'm _going to do now is figure out if the threat has actually been neutralized. Yugi seems to think he wasn't working alone."

"You trust Yugi?" Mokuba asked, with an impish smile rising on his lips.

"On occasion."

Seto looked over, saw the smile on his brother's face, and found the slightest smile of his own. A sort of peace fell over the elder Kaiba as he realized that the immediate threat was gone. His mission, the mission he had thought to be his last, was done. Complete. And regardless of the fact that Yugi Mutou had—yet again—been instrumental in its success, the final deed had been his own.

It had not been satisfying. In the deepest part of his mind, Seto admitted to himself that it had even been a fair bit frightening to finally carry it out, to end a life with a twitch of a finger. To be an executioner.

But it had been necessary.

And across the room from him, there was a little smile that reminded him why.

"I love you, Mokuba," Seto said suddenly. "I'm proud of you."

Mokuba's smile widened. His eyes were wet.

"You told me, Niisama. I love you, too. And...I'm proud of you, too."

* * *

**59.**

* * *

"So? Guess it's done, then, huh?"

Yami wasn't all that surprised to hear Joey Wheeler's voice as he stepped into Yugi's bedroom. "Of course it's done. I would not be here, were it not. The gods smiled upon us, Joey. Mayet has been served. Her scales are balanced." His eyes gleamed. "The bone eater ate well tonight."

Joey grimaced. "You're fucked up."

Yami didn't answer.

He sat at Yugi's desk, cradled his head in a hand, and looked out the window into the night sky. A coin danced between the fingers of his other hand, and Joey didn't bother asking where it had come from. The blond was lying on Yugi's bed, arms crossed beneath his head as he stared up at the ceiling. He thought about the sacrifice he had made, and wondered how it could seem so far in the past already. How long would it be until he could forget it entirely? Until he wasn't haunted by it anymore?

He reminded himself: Mokuba was alive.

That's what mattered.

That's all that mattered. And every time he thought back on that hellish night, he just needed to think about Mokuba's face at that press conference he had watched with Serenity, about the tears running down the boy's face as his legions of fans cheered their heads off and threw flowers at his feet. Literally, flowers.

The boy wonder was back. He was loved, he was exalted, he was safe.

He was alive.

"So...when do I get to collect, huh?" Joey asked. "When do I get to tell Kaiba he owes me big time for this one?"

He'd meant it as a joke. He'd no more tell Kaiba what he'd given up for Mokuba than he'd tell Mokuba himself. Joey just wasn't that kind of guy. But all he same, when Yami looked at him, he felt his heart freeze in his chest.

The entire room may as well have been rimmed in frost, and the gambler king's eyes were an arctic hurricane.

"On the day you wish to die."

* * *

**60.**

* * *

The man named Amelda was not a peasant, and he was not a target.

He was an instrument.

And as he opened his eyes again, so sure that everything had ended, he expected to see _his_ king. He expected to owe his life to that king, yet again, and he expected that he would have to put his mission aside. There was no way to convince the Master to let him try again. Not this time. And he thought that he would call himself lucky to be alive.

He was a broken instrument. His only hope now was to be repaired on the Master's terms.

But when his vision cleared, and he could see again, he did not see the Master.

He saw a dark figure, swathed in rags.

He looked around, and saw a graveyard. But he could tell that it was no closer to a resting place for the dead than this figure in front of him was a king. It was like his every memory of what a graveyard _should_ be had been given rise to reality around him. Everything was hazy, undefined, and he couldn't tell if anything was even real. He wondered if he was dreaming. Dared to hope.

The dark figure was moving forward. It did not seem to walk, but glide.

"Amelda," came a voice, a dark voice, and he felt his every muscle sing with horrendous pain at the sound of it. He crumpled to the ground, and watched with sudden terror as a hand extended itself from the rags and pulled them aside.

The last thing Amelda saw before descending into damnation was a single lock of shock-white hair, and a gleaming golden ring, hanging from a rotting cord.

"...It's time to dance."

* * *

**END.**

* * *

**_I know what you're thinking. Amelda? Why the hell him? Heh. My reasoning for using an anime-only filler villain for this particular story was simply a way for me to write him. Not that I'm particularly fond of him as a character...that might be why he died. I count three Seto clones in the anime for Yu-Gi-Oh!: Rishid Ishtar, Amelda, and Siegfried von Schroeder. All of them share certain elements with Seto, most glaringly in the function of their having little brothers. The only one of those three that I find particularly interesting is Rishid, and I think it's no mistake that he's the one that shows up in the original story, where the other two don't._**

_**Regardless of that, I thought Amelda made a good fit for this particular story, because let's face it...guy's kind of unhinged.**_

_**This story has proven to be a highly effective learning experience, and it's interesting to me to think back on the genesis of it.**_

_**It's always fascinating to take a general idea and see what two different writers will do with it. "Mokuba's death" is the general idea, in this case. What would two separate authors make of the notion? I'm sure there are a multitude of excellent examples that far outshine my efforts.**_

_**But the fun part of this project, for me, is to see what the same author will do with it, twice over, with only time distancing them. "Twist of Fate" was the first major story I ever finished, and published on this site. How interesting that this story become another finished work, the fourth unless my reckoning is off, published on the same site seven years later.**_

_**This has become the definitive version of my take. This is how I picture it. This was the story I wanted "Twist of Fate" to be.**_

_**Thank you all, yet again, for allowing me to take time out of your lives to show you the workings of my imagination. It means the world to me.**_

_**See you on the next journey.**_


End file.
